


i got those jetpack blues

by bizarrebird



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Bedsharing, Discussions of Past Trauma, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, denial of issues, eventual luckington because I can't control myself, mentions of past lolix, mentions of previous character death, more character and ship tags to be added as necessary, season 15 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-01-22 02:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 61,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12471740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bizarrebird/pseuds/bizarrebird
Summary: Tucker is fine. He's always fine. His nightmares have nothing on Locus' or Wash's. So it's his job to help them put themselves back together. Because he can take it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, guess who can't stop writing dumb self indulgent things for my stupid ship? I made a post a while ago on tumblr about luckington bed sharing headcanons that I've been thinking about more and more lately, and I also wanted to write more from Tucker's POV, so this happened. I don't mean for this to get long and am going to try to limit myself to five chapters max. This takes place after season 15, so please be mindful of potential spoilers!

It’s not the first time Tucker’s been pinned down with a knife at his throat. That doesn’t stop his heart from hammering in his ears as he looks up at his would be attacker with wide eyes. 

Well, ‘attacker’ isn’t quite the right word. You can’t really attack someone if you’re still half asleep, right? Whatever, that’s what Tucker’s going with. He’s sort of blaming himself for this one. 

He’s the idiot that burst into Locus’ room in the first place when he heard yelling and, when he spotted Locus thrashing around in bed like he was fighting off invisible spiders, he grabbed at his shoulders to shake him awake. In retrospect, trying to aggressively shake a former killing machine out a nightmare was probably pretty high up there on his list of bad ideas. 

Locus has been with them a while now. Ever since the shit with the Blues and Reds and Locus saving their asses, which Tucker can sort of admit he did now. Not that he’ll say as much to his face. 

He did thank him for Wash though. 

When they’d arrived back at the moon and got the good news about Wash still being alive, Tucker hadn’t been all that surprised when they found Locus lurking around their bases. Not like the guy had a whole lot of places to go. Grif had been the one to tell him to stay, and… there’s a whole mess of fucked up bad feelings there still, so no one had told him how shitty an idea that was. Locus hadn’t seemed like he was super into it either, but apparently Grif’s got a set of puppy dog eyes that even killer mercenaries can’t resist. Former killer mercenaries, who now apparently only shoot people in the kneecap. Whatever. 

So now he’s there. Living down the hall in the room they had originally made to be a rec room before they realized they couldn’t be bothered to actually carry the shit out of the main room of the base. Ping pong tables and drum sets are fucking heavy. So it’s Locus’ now. Apparently. 

Tucker had been walking past on his way to get a drink. But he wants to think he would’ve woken up anyway. He hasn’t been sleeping great lately. Not since Wash-- 

He’ll be back in a week. He’ll be fine. Tucker talked to him yesterday. He knows Wash is okay. 

But that doesn’t make getting it out of his head any easier. Getting a drink is what he does when he gets tired of tossing and turning. And it’s not uncommon for him to hear other noises late at night. Caboose and Sarge seem to have some unspoken challenge going to see who can snore the loudest, and Tucker’s pretty fucking sure he’s heard some interesting sounds coming from Grif and Simmons’ room. 

Good for them. It's about damn time. And Tucker’s not going to think about how Church isn't there anymore to pay the twenty bucks he owes him about those two finally getting their shit together.

Tonight’s the first time he’s heard anything from Locus. At first, his brain had shut off completely and thought only  _ Wash _ . But then he had remembered. Not Wash, still someone having a nightmare. Someone who needs help. So he had thrown open the door and moved without thinking. 

And now he’s on his back, pressed to the hard, metal floor. The knife at his throat stings where it just barely slices into his skin and Locus’ other hand presses tight to his chest, the same spot that’s probably bruised from the force that had slammed him down to start with. Fuck. 

The worst part is Locus’ face. He doesn’t look pissed. His eyes are wide and unseeing, mouth open like he can’t catch his breath, long hair hanging down around him. He looks panicked, terrified.

Shit. 

Alright, he’s been here before, he knows how to do this. He’s talked Caboose and Wash out of nightmares, and even Tex that one time years before he’d even heard of Chorus. He can do this. 

“Locus--dude, it’s just me.” Very slowly, he presses a hand over the one Locus is jamming into his chest. “Just Tucker. You’re safe, man. No one’s gonna hurt you. It’s just a dream, Locus.”

God, what the fuck is he doing? This is how he dies. He doesn’t even really know this asshole. He’s Grif’s new bodyguard, or Wash’s. Whatever. Tucker’s had like two conversations with the guy where he hasn’t wanted to punch him. 

Locus blinks once slowly, then a few more times a lot faster, trying to wake himself up. His grip eases the tiniest bit and his brow furrows, looking more confused than anything else. It’s a weird sort of relief to see the fear gone. If something scares _ Locus _ , then it’s gotta be bad. 

“Tucker?” His voice is a hoarse whisper, like he still doesn’t quite know what’s real, the name sounding out of place on his tongue, like he’s just repeating it without understanding. 

“Yeah, just me, dude. Hi,” Tucker says, feeling a little stupid, but smiling anyway. Nice and non-threatening, he hasn’t forgotten that knife yet. 

“Lavernius?” Locus tries this time and that’s a little weird, but… somehow it sounds like it fits better than his last name. Not what his friends call him, but still familiar. At least that means Locus knows who the fuck he is. 

Which… is hopefully a good thing. 

Tucker gently rubs at his arm. “Yup, still me, big guy. You wanna put the knife away? Cause I mean, I’m all for kinky shit, but we should probably talk safe words first.”

He’s stupid and scared, but not as much as he should be, and he’s babbling. But it seems to get through and Locus blinks a few more times, brow furrowing before he suddenly notices the knife in his own hand. 

Jerking back like it burned him, Locus tosses the knife away. Tucker hears an indistinct clatter as it smacks against a wall somewhere. He doesn’t try to follow it. He’s had enough of knives for a fucking lifetime. 

Locus’ lifts his hands like he wants to check on him and then yanks them back, curling tight against his chest as he all but falls away away from Tucker. For a big guy, and seriously, he’s fucking huge, Locus moves incredibly fast as he scrambles back and shoves himself into the corner of the room.

Alright, good, Tucker thinks to himself as he sits up. The less giant murder machine in his space, the better. 

But then he looks over and feels that relief seep out of him like a sadly deflating balloon. Because Locus is scrunched in on himself, too much person squeezed into too small a space, like he wants to disappear completely. His head and arms are tucked in toward his chest, but that’s not doing a damn thing to keep his shoulders from shaking. 

Well fuck. 

Tucker gets up slow. No sudden movements, he remembers that too well from the time Wash almost clocked him in the face when he jumped out from behind a corner to fuck with him, not knowing it was one of his Bad Days ™. It might not matter, Locus isn’t looking at anything but his own arms right now, but hell, the guy might have weird predator motion senses or something. So Tucker just carefully inches over and reaches out, carefully putting a hand on Locus’ arm. 

He does this whole body jolt-flinch thing and it’s like a hand reaches into Tucker’s chest, grabs his heart, and twists. And then Locus looks up, eyes bigger than Tucker’s ever seen them, terror and guilt clinging to every inch of his face. It’s not like Tucker was thinking a whole lot about his options before this, but that look narrows the choices down to exactly one. 

Still moving at sloth-like speeds, Tucker shifts in closer, hands sliding up Locus’ arms. Oh man, he’s still shaking. 

“Tucker, I--I didn’t mean--” Locus’ voice is rough, his usual low rumble higher and strained. 

“Dude, just chill. You didn’t mean to. I get that. It’s cool, just… c’mere.” And he slides his hands up to Locus’ shoulders and tugs. 

There’s not much resistance before Locus is folding into him. Probably cause Locus still looks exhausted and Tucker suddenly has to wonder how many nights have been like this one. His face ends up sort of awkwardly smushed into Tucker’s shoulder, his hands still tucked in toward his own chest, like he’s afraid of touching anything else. 

It’s not really a hug, which is probably for the best, cause Tucker’s pretty sure he and Locus are still at least seventeen normal conversations away from even the most casual of bro hugs. There’s also the fact that Locus apparently sleeps shirtless, so there’s fucking miles of muscle that he’s just… not going to pay attention to right now. So not the time brain, get your shit together. 

Eyes fixed on the wall directly in front of him, Tucker rubs at Locus’ back. Alright, maybe he can just… do what he does for Wash. They’re both fucked up super soldier types. 

“Just try and breathe, alright? No one’s gonna hurt you.”

Okay, that feels sort of ridiculous to say to Locus of all people. Who the hell could hurt him? Well, okay, clearly something or someone did, because there’s definitely scars under Tucker’s fingers where he rubs at Locus’ back. Not a lot, but some scattered here and there. He expects there’s more on Locus’ chest. Doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to put his back to an enemy. 

But Locus takes a shuddering breath and stops shaking, so apparently the words help. Maybe just talking is good. Wash likes that sometimes. Likes hearing another voice just to know he’s not alone. Caboose too. 

Tucker can relate. 

“Yeah, that’s it, big guy. Just you and me,” and that sounds weird, so he keeps going, “Grif and Simmons are right down the hall and Carolina’s two rooms down. We’re all still here, man. And we’re not gonna let anyone get at you, alright?”

It’s a weird thing to say, but… he means it. Locus might not be one of them, but like hell are they letting anyone else fuck with him while he’s sticking around. 

Locus says nothing in response, but his breathing grows a little less frantic. After a few moments of Tucker’s comforting nonsense babbling, Locus lifts his head up and Tucker snaps his mouth shut. 

He barely looks real like this, stupidly pretty hair falling around his face in messy waves, his gray eyes almost shimmery in the low light. Tucker half expects his eyes to reflect like a big cat’s would. But they don’t. They’re too open and human for that. 

Locus’ brow furrows a little as he looks over Tucker’s face and then he looks almost stricken as his gaze goes a little lower and his hands twitch toward Tucker’s neck. Tucker is giving himself so many points for not flinching away from that, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because Locus doesn’t decide to suddenly throttle him, his hands stopping several inches shy of touching. 

“You’re bleeding. I should… there’s a medical kit. In the nightstand.” There’s something stilted and nervous about the way Locus says it that makes Tucker hesitant to pull away from him completely. 

The dude’s still pretty shaken up. There’s no getting around that. Yeah… Tucker can’t leave him like this. Damn it. So much for getting any fucking sleep. 

“Grab it for me,” he says, casual, like it’s no big deal that Locus almost slit his throat in his sleep. It’s not like he meant to. It’s fine. Sort of fine. 

Locus looks at him for a long moment, a little wrinkle forming between his brows. It makes the scars stand out more. But then he gives a slight nod and extracts himself from Tucker’s arms. His legs shake only a little as he rises and moves toward the nightstand. Hopefully that’s a good sign. 

Tucker gets up, realizing that his legs are super cramped and falling asleep from that awkward crouch. So he very quickly sinks back down, managing to maneuver himself over so he can reach the end of Locus’ bed. Well, okay, calling it a bed is generous. It’s a mattress on the floor. But it’s not like Tucker’s own setup is any better. There’s a wistful sigh somewhere in the back of his head for the sweet ass bunk beds he and Wash had back in their old bases before Donut burnt them to the ground. 

Maybe they can make new ones.

The mattress creaks as Locus kneels on it next to him. There’s a deeply uncertain look on his face as he stares down the medkit in his hands for a few seconds before he all but shoves it at Tucker. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Yeah, this is still weird. But he takes it and then Locus just sits awkwardly beside him and doesn’t look at him, which only dials down the weird by a single notch. Maybe like half a notch. 

Tucker reaches to find the cut and hisses when his fingers brush it. Huh, not being able to see it super well is going to make this tricky. He glances at Locus out of the corner of his eye. Well, there’s two options: take the medkit and go fumble his way to the bathroom to get a better look at himself in the mirror, or invite the ex-murder machine to feel up his neck. 

Goddamn it. 

With a little sigh, he nudges Locus’ side with the kit. “You mind? I can’t see my own neck, dude.”

“I… Alright. Try not to move.” 

There’s still a moment of hesitation before Locus actually does anything. Tucker kind of wishes it was a longer moment, cause he’s not ready when Locus’ fingers, more gentle than he ever would’ve figured, brush his dreads back behind his ear and out of the way and then trail down his neck, stopping just short of the cut and send a million little electric sparks down his spine. 

Looking back later, that’s probably the moment Tucker should’ve realized his eventual slow decent into fuckery began. 

Locus frowns at his neck, the same kind of intense focus on his face as when he does well… pretty much anything. The guy’s kinda single minded when he’s trying to get shit done. He sets the med kit down and turns away, reaching to fumble for something else in the nightstand.

“Here,” he says, dropping what turns out to be a flashlight onto Tucker’s lap. “Hold that.”

It takes Tucker a second to figure out how to get the stupid thing on. Because of course Locus doesn’t have just a regular flashlight. It’s weird and alien and illuminates the room with a soft, blue glow. It’s kind of nice… and familiar somehow. 

Tucker’s brow furrows as he looks down at the device. It’s not really flashlight shaped now that he looks at it. It’s like a little box with a few too many sides. The glow is soft and it pulses a little, and for some reason, Tucker’s suddenly sure that it’s meant to be spinning and he doesn’t know why until it clicks. 

“Dude… is this a nightlight?”

Locus goes very still where he’s sorting through the medkit. He turns to look at Tucker slowly, the light from the device making his sharp features softer somehow. “I… suppose that’s what it could be called. Technically. How do you know that?”

“My kid used to have a bunch of these. But his like had… these little shape things you could stick on it, and it spun, so it’d make cool shadows and shit on the wall. I think it played music too.” 

It’s all ridiculously clear in his head now as he thinks back. Junior had probably been a little old for a nightlight, by alien standards or whatever, but the little guy had still been scared of the dark. He looks at Locus’ nightlight with a new fondness. “He used to love these things.”

“Used to?” Locus asks, voice very soft, something… weird in his tone. 

“Yeah, he says he’s too old for them now. Pretty sure he’s still got all his old ones somewhere. There was this really cool one that made it look like there were stars and shit on the walls. Actually, I think I might have that one… somewhere.”

It’s a weird thing to be talking about, with Locus of all people. But the weirder part is that he hasn’t told Tucker to shut up. When he looks up from the light, Locus is watching him with this… strange look. Somehow, it kinda makes him look younger. Whatever, it’s weird, so Tucker shifts a little, reaching up to make sure his dreads are still out of the way. That seems to snap Locus out of it. 

He carefully cleans the blood from Tucker’s neck with a cloth that must be damp with antiseptic the way it stings. Tucker winces a little, but stays put. Locus has that super intense look again, but his hands are gentle, the other one hooking around the back of Tucker’s neck to hold him in place. 

And the guy has massive hands. Like they’re fucking huge. Tucker would be lying if he said this is the first time he’s noticed. Maybe he’s got a thing about hands, screw him. And maybe, if he had the chance and it wouldn’t be super weird, he could probably spend a few hours checking out Locus’ hands, mapping out the lines on his palms, cataloguing every little scar and mark. 

But that would be fucking weird. So he won’t. 

That whole train of thought is so bizarre that he’s just… not going to look at Locus for a while. The sting fades away as Locus finishes cleaning up the blood and then he leans in real close and alright, that seems kinda unnecessary. Tucker’s about to ask what the fuck he’s doing when Locus slowly runs a finger over the cut and he has to fight back a full body shudder. 

Goddamn it. Okay, it has officially been too fucking long since he got laid. Or just… had anyone touch him. Like at all. Because that should not be doing the things to him that it is and he’s just going to stare at the corner of the room and maybe hold the light a little too tight. 

Don’t think about it. Don’t fucking think about that shit now when Locus is right up in his space with his stupid huge hands and pretty hair and stormy eyes.

“You’re still bleeding,” Locus says, apparently unaware of the hormone fueled nonsense going on in Tucker’s head. Which is definitely a good thing. 

He wipes his hand on something, Tucker’s not falling into that trap and looking at the dude’s hands again. “It doesn’t look deep.”

There’s something off about Locus’ tone, almost like… like there’s supposed to be an apology in it. Huh. Tucker never figured Locus could do something as human as apologize. Seems like that should’ve gotten lost during his years long impression of a murderous robot. 

“Well, good.” Tucker risks a glance at Locus’ face, who’s got his attention on the medkit again, probably digging through it for a bandage. “I know you didn’t mean to. It was kinda stupid to just like… start shaking you and shit.”

Locus neither confirms nor denies the stupidity there, but his hands go still on the medkit, brow furrowing a little. “Why did you?”

Tucker blinks at him, one eyebrow rising. “Why did I what? Wake you? Cause you were having a nightmare and you were freaking out. Not like I was just gonna walk away.”

Confusion is still plastered all over Locus’ face, perpetually frowning lips pushed out a little. He opens his mouth like he wants to ask something, but then shuts it again. Apparently changing his mind, Locus shakes his head a little as he fishes a bandage out of the medkit. 

Fingers tip Tucker’s chin up carefully, the touch barely there. His eyes go right back to the corner, so he’s not looking anywhere near Locus when hands that could snap a man in half gently press the bandage into place, smoothing down the edges. God, why are his hands so warm? They leave ghost traces of heat behind and linger just long enough to make Tucker swallow thickly and grip the light tight enough, it’s a fucking miracle he doesn’t break the damn thing. 

Or maybe not. It is sorta meant to stand up to alien toddlers, so it’s probably pretty tough. 

Finally, Locus’ hands fall away and Tucker hates how cold he suddenly is. He sets the light aside and pushes himself up, stretching a little. There’s the soft sounds of Locus packing up the medkit next to him, but it’s not enough to fill the too quiet room. 

Tucker drags a hand through his hair, glancing down at Locus. “So… you think you can get back to sleep? It’s still pretty late.”

“I believe so.” But Locus is looking at the bed like it’s the enemy, jaw clenched, a slight tension in his shoulders. Jesus Christ, how is he even real?

Sighing, Tucker rubs a hand over his face. He glances out the door, frowning to himself. It’s not like he was getting a whole lot of sleep even before he walked in here. And he’s pretty sure going back to his own bed and trying again isn’t going to do much. 

He lets out a huff and drops back onto Locus’ mattress, pulling back the blanket and then slipping under it. Looking up, he finds Locus staring at him with wide eyes, mouth open. He looks like a very surprised cartoon. The kind of cartoon in magazines Tucker’s mom would never have let him looked at.  Especially with that whole shirtless thing. And yeah, way more scars on his chest. Like holy shit, that’s a lot of scars, and there’s a sadly rarely listened to voice in the back of Tucker’s head that really wants to lick them. 

But he’s not doing that right now. Or ever. He’s tired, his dick is tired. It’s time for some goddamn sleep. 

So he cocks an eyebrow at Locus. “You just gonna stand there all night? Get the fuck in here… or at least take your boxers off so I’ve got something to look at.”

It’s hard to tell in the weird soft light, but he’s pretty sure Locus’ cheeks go four shades darker and his eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. He glances down at himself, looking… confused for a moment before he gives himself a little shake and squares his shoulder like he’s going into battle as he climbs into bed. 

Tucker drags the blankets over him and then has to bite back a laugh when Locus just lays there, stiff as a board. “Dude, get comfy. I’m staying here to try and help you sleep. Having someone else helps with nightmares and shit, or… it helps for Wash and Caboose.”

Locus turns his head, looking at him dubiously. After a moment, he sighs and shifts, turning a bit, careful not to come within an inch of Tucker. And then he shifts again. And again. The guy is a giant and he’s trying to take up the least amount of room possible and that would be hilarious if it wasn’t kind of sad.

With a huff, Tucker sits up and reaches over to grab Locus’ shoulder. “Dude, stop.”

That does get him to go still, looking up at him questioningly. Tucker blows out a breath, trying to think. “Alright, you just… how do you usually sleep?”

“On my side.”

“Then do that. No, just get comfortable and then I’m gonna try something.”

Locus eyes him for a moment, like he’s expecting a trap, but then reluctantly, he settles down on the bed again. The mattress creaks as he settles on his side, taking up a bit more room, even as he curls in on himself a little, his back toward Tucker. Alright, cool, he can work with that. 

Shifting in closer, Tucker sinks back down. He moves in slow, starting with a hand pressing gently to Locus’ back. As he kind of expects, Locus goes totally still. But Tucker just rubs his hand in slow, gentle circles until the tension slowly eases away and Locus’ breathing gets a little more even. 

Bit by bit, he shifts in until his chest is pressed to Locus’ back and, after a little spluttering when he gets a mouthful of hair, he presses his forehead to the top of Locus’ spine. His arm wiggles around Locus’ middle, hand resting on his chest. There’s the  _ thump thump _ of Locus’ heart under his hand, which speeds way the fuck up as Tucker settles in close, but that too grows steady and even. Tucker lets his eyes shut. “This gonna work for you?”

“I… I think it will.” For some reason, Locus sounds like he’s frowning. “I thought… nevermind.”

“What?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Dude, come on.”

Locus sighs and Tucker can feel his chest blow it out like a bellows. “I was under the impression that… the larger person is supposed to be the bigger spoon.”

Tucker muffles his laughter against Locus’ shoulder. He can’t stop grinning. There’s just something so weird and great about Locus talking about the dynamics of proper spooning. 

“Well yeah, if you wanna do shit the boring way. I’m an awesome big spoon. Now would you just go the fuck to sleep? Carolina’s gonna want us up in like four hours for her training bullshit.” Because apparently she’s even worse than Wash about learning to fucking relax for once. 

Locus sighs again, shifting a little, probably to get comfortable. “I make no promises.”

Always with the fucking dramatics. At least Locus is picking up the slack there so he doesn’t have to miss that particular part of having Wash around. Tucker just rolls his eyes before forcing them shut. He presses his face into Locus’ shoulder and definitely doesn’t nuzzle him or notice that he smells like a forest after a thunderstorm.

Fuck Donut and his stupid sexy smelling candles with weirdly specific names. If he wakes up with a boner, he’s burning down the whole moon, starting with himself. 

It’s that thought that keeps Tucker from sleeping deeply. He drifts in and out, thoughts mingling with half formed dreams. Not enough for him to really feel rested, but he’s at least able to keep his eyes open the next day after he wakes up blessedly boner free still curled against Locus’ back. 

Judging by the circles under Locus’ eyes, Tucker’s brilliant strategy didn’t work quite as planned, but after an awkward few minutes and then carefully timed shuffling from the room to avoid being seen by anyone else on the way to breakfast, he meets Locus’ eyes across the room that doubles as a kitchen and a laboratory for Sarge’s less dubious projects. As he nods to Locus over his coffee cup, Tucker’s pretty sure there’s the tiniest beginnings of a smile on lips that don’t seem to realize they can do anything other than frown. 

There’s not time to talk before the others start filing in, which is probably good, cause Tucker’s not totally sure what to say to a guy he spooned all night and still doesn’t really like that much. But there’s a little warm feeling in his chest that can’t even be dampened by the fact the three day old coffee that tastes like feet. 

It’s not trust. Not yet. But it feels like… maybe he can let himself get there if he's not careful.

* * *

Tucker doesn’t go back to Locus’ room the next night, but he doesn’t go to his own either. The whole day feels sort of weird and distant, there’s been a lot of days like that on the moon. Probably the atmosphere or something getting to him. Or maybe it’s just weird having so much nothing to do again, almost like Blood Gulch or the crash site.

But it’s not really like those places at all, because when he looks to his side there’s no one there to hear his awesome joke about what he’d like to do with those webcams Kai set up before she left. 

That’s whatever though. It’s not like that’s new.

If Locus gives a shit, which he probably doesn’t, he doesn’t say anything about it the next day, which… yeah he probably wouldn’t even if he did. His room is quiet though, so maybe the nightmare was a one time thing. Tucker wishes his own could be like that, just one and done. 

Not like he has them that often, but it’s been bad since they got back. And it’s not like they’re even that bad, he’s never woken himself up screaming of had to have someone shake him awake. But they still happen. The second night after spending too many hours spooned up against Locus, he jerks awake on the couch. 

He sits up and presses his face into his hands before dropping one to press at his stomach. Nothing. No blood, no knife. He’s fine. Of course he is. He’s always fine. 

With a little groan, he drags his fingers through his hair. Why the fuck is he still having dreams about Felix? That fucker’s been dead for ages, and he’s pretty sure there’s no Temple of Undead on Chorus to change that. He tries to shake himself a little, trying to get rid of the clammy, itchy feeling that’s sunk under his skin. 

Glancing around, he pushes himself up. Sarge and Caboose’s snoring echo from down the hall, mingling with the sounds of Donut’s soft sleep babbling. Suddenly, there’s not enough air in the base, so he tucks his sword into the waistband of his sweats and heads outside. 

The moon is dark and cool. A rush of wind smacks him in the face as he shuts the door behind him, metal scraping into the groove already worn into the ground. Goosebumps go up his arms as he wanders away from the base. Maybe he should go back for a jacket. Or some armor. But the cold helps shove that itchy feeling down, so he doesn’t bother. 

Hands shoved into the oversized pockets of his sweat pants, he wanders away from the base, damp grass tickling at his toes. They haven’t really been on the moon long enough for him to have a favorite place, but there’s spots he likes. There’s a little hill where Carolina likes to spar and an open field with Donut and Caboose always go to make daisy chains and a quiet circle of rocks where Wash always set up a campfire that they’d sit around and tell shitty stories. 

But he’s alone. So he goes down to the beach. 

The sand squishes between his toes, making him wish he had stopped for shoes, but at least it’s not far to get to his spot. It’s not really much to make a special place out of, just a couple big old rocks that must’ve washed up ages ago. Or maybe they fell down from the rocky cliff sort of above them. Tucker doesn’t know how the hell the moon shapes itself. However they got there, they’ve been there long enough for the surface to be smoothed down into a nice, natural bench, just in the right spot for looking at the stars. 

He sinks down and leans back on his hands, looking up at the sky. The other guys have said that the stars look different here than they did on Earth. Tucker wouldn’t really know. Growing up in a place with more smog than sky hadn’t given him much experience there. There had been one crushing night when he was seven when his mom had told him his wishing star was a helicopter that he never quite got over. 

There’s plenty of stars to wish on now. But wishes are stupid and the stars probably won’t even listen. They probably shouldn’t anyway. Too many kids out there with wishes more important than his. 

At least they’re pretty. 

Tucker’s probably been there about ten minutes when he hears the crunch of sand under boots behind him. He goes tense slowly, fingers itching for his sword. Probably just Caboose or Carolina. They follow him out here sometimes. Wash did too. But Tucker hasn’t lost it enough to forget that it can’t be him. Not right now anyway.

It should probably be a surprise when Locus steps into view. Huh, maybe Tucker’s gotten more used to him being around than he thought. He’s half in armor, mostly just from the waist down, like he was in the middle of taking it off or putting it on before he headed down here. 

Tucker just blinks at him for a second. “Sup?”

Locus frowns at him. Although, that’s probably just how his face is. He glances around, as if expecting someone else to suddenly emerge from the little waves lapping at the shore. When no one does, he turns back to Tucker, brow furrowed. “I saw you heading away from the base. Is… everything alright?”

The easy ‘yeah’ forms on his tongue, but it doesn’t come out. He can’t make it. So Tucker just shrugs, looking back up at the sky. “Just needed some air. Didn’t think that was a fucking crime.”

“It’s not. I only meant to check in,” Locus says, a little stiffly. 

There’s an urge to push him, to snap. Tucker doesn’t need a fucking babysitter, and he sure as hell doesn’t need Locus checking up on him now. But… that’s probably kinda shitty. He was fucking snuggling the dude two days ago, talk about some fucking mixed signals there. 

Letting out a breath, Tucker drags a hand through his hair and shrugs. “It’s cool. I just like going for walks and shit sometimes, no biggie. The base gets kinda stuffy with everyone crammed in there, y’know?”

“Understandable.” He sees Locus nod out of the corner of his eye. The silence is filled by the soft sounds of the water and the wind as Locus turns, looking out toward the horizon. 

“So what’re you doing up?” Tucker asks after a few moments. “More nightmares?”

And there’s a little stab of guilt at that. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken off like he did. But Locus shakes his head. 

“I couldn’t sleep. I was on the top of the base attempting to do some armor and weapon maintenance.”

Well that explains how he saw him… and where Locus goes most of the day. He doesn’t usually hang around with the rest of them outside of training with Carolina and the times he and Grif just kinda sit off on their own talking about stuff. Tucker doesn’t ask what their deal is. Not his business. Maybe Grif asks him for relationship advice, that’d be hysterical. 

He snorts and Locus turns to him, one eyebrow rising. Oops. Tucker shakes his head a little. “Nothing, just thought of something funny. You wanna sit down?”

Locus hesitates for a moment before sinking down onto the rock next to him. He leaves about half a foot of space between them, not enough that he’s trying to occupy as little of the rock as possible, but enough so they don’t have to touch. Alright, Tucker can work with that. 

For a few seconds, Locus sits up, straight and tense, like Tucker kinda expects him too, but after a moment, he hunches over a little, elbows resting on his knees, hands drooping toward the sand. He looks like an actual person like that, especially with the bits of hair sneaking free of his ponytail to hang in his face. “It’s very peaceful out here,” he says, voice low and rumbling. “I can see why you picked this place.”

“Yeah, it’s nice, I guess.” Tucker glances out over the ocean. Or maybe it’s more of a lake. Fuck if he knows what the difference is. “You think you’re gonna stick around long?”

Locus shrugs. “I hadn’t given it much thought.”

Tucker cocks an eyebrow at him. “Seriously? Aren’t you like… smart and shit?”

The very flat look Locus gives him is probably fair and Tucker makes a face as he looks away. “I mean, like, you don’t really seem like the type to just wing it, I guess. Seems like you’d kinda have everything planned out super far in advance.”

“Ah. Well… I’m not. Sorry to disappoint.” That almost sounds like a joke and Tucker snorts a little. He’s half sure the corner of Locus’ mouth ticks up a little before he continues. “Before now, I knew what I was doing because I was following orders. Now that I don’t have those… I suppose I’m drifting. I never expected to make it this far, so no, I don’t know where I’m going next or how long I’ll stay.”

Okay, so there’s a lot to unpack in  _ that _ . But the worst part is that Tucker kind of gets it. Not like he figured he’d be doing this shit for so long. He wouldn’t be as fucking dramatic saying it, but… yeah, if he’s being honest, he always sort of figured that he’d get his shit wrecked the first time he was in a real battle. And now that he hasn’t, he doesn’t know where the fuck to go. At least he’s got a group of idiots in the same situation to help figure it out. 

Locus doesn’t. He doesn’t want to sympathize with the guy, but he knows how much that sucks. 

“Would you rather I left?” The question catches him off guard and he looks over to find Locus watching him carefully, expression guarded. 

Tucker shrugs. “I don’t really give a shit, dude. Go where you want, I’m not your keeper.”

Locus frowns, like that wasn’t quite the answer he was looking for. “Do I… are you uncomfortable with me being here?”

It’s a fair question, and honestly one Tucker doesn’t know the answer to. He should though. That should be the easiest fucking yes in the universe. After all the shit Locus has done, just being around him should make Tucker’s skin crawl. But it doesn’t. He doesn’t. 

So Tucker shrugs. “Not really. I mean, I don’t trust you for shit, but you haven’t murdered us all in our sleep, so I guess you’re okay now… kinda. It’s just weird, y’know? Not like I can just forget all the shit that went down on Chorus.”

Locus ducks his head in a nod. “Fair enough. I don’t expect you to.”

“Good.” Tucker’s not sure why he says it, but it feels right to punctuate that. To let Locus know that not all of them are suddenly going to forgive and forget. Because Tucker is pretty damn sure he can’t do either. 

Quiet falls over them again, but it’s loud in Tucker’s head. Now that he’s thinking about it, he can’t stop remembering Chorus, the way he used to see Locus shimmer into being and feel a rush of sheer terror. 

“Does the name Jason Cunningham mean anything to you?” he asks suddenly, before he can stop himself. 

Locus looks over at him, one eyebrow rising and Tucker meets his gaze, unblinking. For a long moment, Locus just watches him, then he looks away a little, brow furrowing, like he’s thinking about it. Then he shakes his head. “No. It doesn’t. But I assume that it should?”

At least there’s a hint of something that might be regret in his tone. Not that Tucker knows what the fuck to do with that. He blows out a breath and glares up at the sky. “He was on my squad. On Chorus. You killed him in front of me.”

“Oh.” Locus doesn’t sound surprised. Maybe a few of the other guys have had this talk with him before. “I don’t remember…”

Well, at least he’s honest about it. Tucker’s hands clench on the rock, anger welling up and pricking at his eyes. “What? You kill so many people that they all blur together?”

“Do you remember the names of everyone you’ve killed?”

Ouch. Tucker winces. Locus doesn’t ask it like an accusation though. He sounds honestly curious. After a second, Tucker shrugs. He doesn’t want to answer that. Because he doesn’t. They’re helmets without faces. He keeps count, used to do it for bragging rights, now that makes him feel unspeakably dirty, and not in the good way. 

Locus doesn’t seem to need an answer. He exhales, long and slow. “I could apologize, but that won’t change anything.”

And Tucker hates that he’s right. Locus doesn’t know Cunningham, the kid didn’t mean anything to him. Just another helmet in the way of him completing his orders. And an empty apology sure as shit won’t bring him back. 

“What was he like?” Locus asks very quietly, so soft, Tucker almost doesn’t hear him. 

He looks over, blinking and finds Locus watching him warily, but there’s… almost a softness to his eyes, somehow it makes him look older. 

A lump forms in Tucker’s throat as he looks away. The worst part is that he doesn’t fucking know. Cunningham was just another kid on his squad. He only knew him for a couple weeks, and most of that was spent training instead of talking. 

But he’s read the file. Read it so many times, it’s seared into his brain, he could recite it from memory. Rogers’ too. They’re both still on his datapad somewhere, tucked into a file for him to look at when he really, really wants to feel like shit for a while. He hasn’t looked at them in weeks and it feels like a betrayal. 

The facts of the file come back to him unbidden. “He was young. Nineteen, Spring birthday. He came from this tiny town about twenty miles outside Armonia. Joined up with the rebels after the Feds started taking all their shit for the troops. Said he had a sister back there. I tried writing to her a couple times, never heard anything back though.”

Yeah, it’s pretty fucking obvious that Tucker didn’t actually know him that well, but Locus doesn’t call him on it. Instead, he just nods and rubs at his brow. “When did it happen?”

Tucker doesn’t need him to clarify, the moment starts playing behind his eyes on repeat. “It was uh… before we knew what you and Felix were doing. I was leading the green squad on this mission, trying to find info on where y’all were keeping Wash and the others. I had a camo unit and we took the armor off a couple Feds. Cunningham was dressed like one of your guys.”

“Wait,” Locus says suddenly, brow furrowing as he looks up at the sky. The shadows curl up in the hollows of his cheeks. “I remember that day. Felix knew you were getting close. He ordered me to that outpost and told me you had two men in disguise.”

There’s a white hot rush of hate that has nowhere to go. Felix. Of fucking course it was Felix. The mission suddenly shifts in his head, things he knew sliding into different places. Felix never wanted them to find that intel. He didn’t want them getting to Wash and the others. Tucker’s known that, but now it’s hitting him over the fucking head, shoving all these little moments back in his face that he never had time to think about. Damn it. He wants to break something or maybe scream. 

“So you’re passing the buck here?” is what he asks instead, unable to keep the bite out of his voice. 

“No.” There’s no hesitation. Locus isn’t looking at him, expression drawn, focus intent on a point beyond the horizon. “Felix may have guided my hand, but I pulled the trigger. I killed Jason Cunningham, and I knew you were there to see it.”

Tucker suddenly feels very cold and knows it has nothing to do with the slight wind. “You knew?”

Locus nods slowly. “I was under orders not to harm you. If I hadn’t…”

There’s a huge blank then and Tucker’s overactive imagination is only too happy to fill it. He’s only alive now because Locus was following orders. Because Felix told him not to so they could keep using him to spur the war on. 

He takes a long, slow breath and looks out at the water, wishing it would do a damn thing to ease his nerves. The weirdest thing though… is it doesn’t make him scared of Locus. It’s a pretty fucked up thing to think about and he’s pretty sure his legs would be shaky as fuck if he tried to stand up, but Locus is no more terrifying than he was a few seconds ago. 

“I don’t think he really wanted to fight,” Tucker says, after a while, the silence feeling more uncomfortable than the ones before. “I don’t think most of them did.”

“No, I expect they didn’t.” There’s something heavy in Locus’ tone, it looks like whatever it is settles on his shoulders too. 

Tucker watches him for a few long moments, fingers drumming on the rock beside him. “Is that what your nightmares are about? Chorus?”

Locus blinks, caught off guard as he looks toward Tucker, brows knitting together. He seems to weigh the question for a second before answering. “Now and then, yes. It’s… mostly things that came before. The war…”

“Felix?” Tucker’s pretty sure that’s the blank Locus isn’t filling there. 

“More often than not,” Locus says, nodding. He shifts a little, gaze dropping to the sand next to his boots. “Not always in the way you’re thinking though.”

Tucker doesn’t really know how to respond to that, because he’s not sure how he was thinking it. Well, at least that proves Locus definitely isn’t a mind reader, which is strangely reassuring. He nods a little, it seems like the thing to do. 

“I have dreams about him too, sometimes,” he says, because it seems like the thing to say. “Y’know, I kinda get it. How you ended up wrapped around his finger. Sometimes I kinda wonder… if I’d been around him longer, if he would’ve tried to pull that shit with me.”

“He would have. It’s what he did,” Locus says, with an unnerving kind of certainty. “You were his favorite. I remember… he would brag about you, ask if I was jealous that he had a new toy to play with.”

“Were you?” Tucker regrets the words the second they’re out of his mouth. Because what the fuck. He doesn’t want to know that. He doesn’t need to know that. God, what is wrong with him? He opens his mouth to take it back, but Locus answers before he can. 

“At times, yes. But I knew what he was doing. Felix never did anything without an angle.” Locus sounds a little bitter, which isn’t surprising. It sounds like the dude had been jerked around by Felix for years. But… it’s a particular kind of bitter. One that Tucker has to take a second to recognize. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, holding up a hand. “Were you like… into him?”

Locus looks over at him, expression flat again, one eyebrow rising. “We were lovers.”

And there is something  _ deeply _ disconcerting about Locus saying that. Like holy shit, that just doesn’t sound right. Maybe it’s just the word ‘lover’. It’s always felt too personal, like it comes with all this weight that Tucker just… doesn’t want to put on anything. 

He’s got to be making a weird face or something, because Locus’ other eyebrow goes up. “Did you and Felix ever--”

“No, no, no!” It comes out a lot quicker and sharper than Tucker means it to as he reels back a little, hands coming up like he’s trying to physically push that question away. Just thinking about it makes his skin crawl. But not for the reasons he wants.

Locus looks like he might start laughing, lips twitching ever so slightly. “I see. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Okay, yeah, he’s definitely laughing at Tucker in his head at least. Tucker makes a face intentionally this time, scrunching up his nose. “Dude. It’s not like I’m offended, I just… Felix wasn’t my type. If I’m gonna bang a dude, I’m not going for a guy who looks like a fucking weasel.”

Locus presses a fist to his mouth, but that doesn’t stop the slight snort that comes out of him before he gives an understanding bob of his head. “Fair enough.”

If this was anyone else, Tucker would expect a question about the kind of dude that is his type to come next. Maybe it’s still coming. So he changes the subject so he doesn’t have to admit that he’s into tall dudes with strong hands and pretty eyes. 

“Do you miss him?” Fuck. Bad subject change. Why does he keep doing this? Goddamn it brain, who’s fucking team are you on here. They were like bonding and shit and then he goes and asks that. 

But Locus doesn’t shut down like Tucker expects him too, not completely anyway. His expression grows a little more guarded, and maybe it’s the way the starlight hits him, but he suddenly looks older than Tucker’s ever seen him, jaw tight, brow furrowed. He’s stupid good looking and it’s not fair. 

“It’s… difficult to say,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to figure it out. “Grif asked me that too once.”

Huh. At least Tucker’s not the only tone deaf asshole around here. He wants to tell Locus that it’s cool, that he doesn’t have to say anything about that, but Locus keeps going. 

“I miss the person he was when we met. I miss his certainty and his companionship, but Felix himself… he’s a difficult person to grieve.”

That’s putting it fucking mildly. But Tucker nods, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I get that. Kinda. I’ve had people--no one like Felix--but friends who were… kinda tough to figure out how to miss.”

It’s the weirdest thing to commiserate over. Especially with fucking Locus. But… maybe that’s why he can. Maybe that’s why Locus is talking about his own shit. It’s not like Tucker really knew Felix. And Church and Tex mean dick all to Locus. That doesn’t mean he’s gonna tell him every little bit. No one needs to fucking know that shit. 

But Locus has given a little, he can do that much in return. 

He shifts on the rock, accidentally scooting a few inches closer to Locus. “I still talk to Church sometimes,” he admits before he can stop himself, “just when no one else is around. I sorta… forget he’s not there for a second and I just start talking like he is.”

“I write mission notes for Felix,” Locus says, making a face like he’s surprised to hear the words come out of his mouth. “He would never read through an entire report, so I would always have to summarize.”

Tucker snorts a little. “Sounds like Felix. I dunno how the fuck you put up with him so long. You’ve gotta have fucking saintlike patience, dude.”

That gets a low, rumbling laugh out of Locus as he shifts a little. Their arms brush and a shiver goes down Tucker’s spine and he doesn’t know if it’s the contact or the laugh that does it. He likes both things way more than he should. 

“Believe me, Lavernius, nothing about me is saintlike,” Locus says evenly, amusement making his eyes glitter. 

The air between them has shrunk down to a couple of inches and suddenly it’s a lot warmer than it was before. Tucker’s glad for the darkness, hoping it hides the way his face burns. Locus’ hand is on the rock next to his, so close their fingers touch when he shifts a little. They’ve both got hands covered in little scars from years of fighting, tiny marks that show where they’ve pushed themselves too far. 

They’re too close. It feels like the air is full of little sparks. But Tucker’s never one to know when he should just back the fuck down. So he smirks, one eyebrow rising. “Yeah? You got anything to back that up with, big guy?”

“I might.” Locus looks a little uncertain, but there’s still something light to his tone. He reaches up and brushes a dread behind Tucker’s ear, sending little tingles through him. His hand lingers, resting lightly at Tucker’s jaw, thumb brushing his cheek hesitantly. “I’m a bit… out of practice.”

Tucker grins. “Pretty sure that shit’s like riding a bike, dude. You never really forget, just gotta fucking go for it.”

Locus looks at him for a long moment, a little wrinkle forming between his brows for a moment before he gives a faint nod. “Maybe you’re right.”

And he leans in. Tucker’s suddenly very aware of his chapped lips, but Locus’ aren’t much better. His mouth is slightly open against Locus’, their lips sliding together slowly. It’s not charged like the air was just before, but it makes the world around them go still. Fuck, maybe Locus isn’t the only one who’s a little out of practice. Tucker realizes he has no idea what the fuck to do with his hands.

But that doesn’t mean it’s not nice. 

After a few seconds, Tucker’s hand curls around the back of Locus’ head, and the temptation to pull the tie out of his hair is so fucking strong. Kissing Locus is like letting waves crash against his toes, soft and slow and a little bit wet. 

He’s not sure how long it’s been when he pulls back a little for breath. Locus’ thumb drags over his lower lip and Tucker shivers. Goddamn it, that makes it official. It’s been way too damn long since he got laid. Maybe Locus would be down for a quickie before they head back to base. Sex on the beach is never as hot as the movies make it seem, but if he stays  mostly dressed, maybe sand won’t have a chance to get fucking everywhere--

“It’s late,” Locus says, voice a little lower than usual, which is fucking saying something. “We should return to base. 

“Yeah… probably should.” Tucker wants to kiss those stupid frowning lips again, but Locus is already drawing back. 

Shit, he’s not that out of practice, is he? But Locus’ eyes linger on him and flick to his mouth in a way that boosts up his quickly tumbling confidence. He looks conflicted for a moment before tearing his eyes away. “You should be resting.”

Tucker snorts, but he doesn’t mean to. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

For some reason, that makes Locus frown at him. His head tips a little to one side, something that might be concern in his eyes. “Do you… were you having trouble sleeping?”

And suddenly, Tucker wants off the beach. Off the moon. Out of the fucking universe. 

He stands and stretches, eyes on the ocean or lake or whatever it is. “Nah, I’m good. The fuck would I have trouble sleeping for? C’mon, let’s get back.”

Tucker turns and heads back up toward the base without giving Locus another look. Because there’s no way in hell he’s telling Locus about his dumbass nightmares. That shit’s got nothing on the kind of things Locus has probably seen and done. He’s fucked up, like seriously fucked up, Wash levels of fucked up. So who the hell is Tucker to complain to him about a couple bad dreams?

It’s no big deal. He can handle it. He always has before and it’s been fine. Locus doesn’t need to fucking comfort him and his stupid stabbing dreams. The guy’s got real problems. 

And Tucker is fine. Just fucking fine. He always is. 


	2. Chapter 2

Wash comes home on a Tuesday. 

The days of the week don’t really matter anymore. They haven’t actually fit since before Blood Gulch, but it’s easier to stick to what you know. Chorus has its own calendar, which Tucker never really got the hang of. It’s easier to just go by the earth clock on his HUD, even though moon days are like a few hours off and there’s probably twelve of them in a week or whatever. 

Nerd stuff, he’ll let Simmons worry about that shit. Tucker tried listening to him explain it once and ended up falling asleep inside his helmet, waking up a few hours later to Caboose covering him in stickers. 

But his HUD says Tuesday when the ship from Chorus arrives and Dr. Grey helps Wash down the ramp, one hand on his arm, though he looks to be walking fine on his own. In fact, apart from the bandages at his neck, he looks fine, eyes bright, skin so healthy it looks like he’s fucking glowing. 

At Tucker’s side, Caboose bounces on the spot, muttering excitedly. “Tucker, Tucker look! Wash is back! He’s back and alive and now we have all our best friends here and we never have to be sad ever, ever again!”

And maybe it’s the warm, happy feeling, but he can’t bring himself to drag Caboose’s mood down, so he just pats his back. “You got that right, dude. But remember to be careful, alright? Don’t wanna break him.”

“I will be the most careful. Donut and I have been practicing soft hugs,” Caboose says, strangely intense. 

Tucker glances past him at Donut, who’s waving to Wash, grinning wide. Yeah he’s just… not gonna ask about that. Glancing around at the others, Tucker notices there’s a head missing from the count, though a second later, he realizes he’s a dumbass. 

Of course Locus isn’t there. As weird as Dr. Grey is, he’s pretty sure not even she would be happy to see him hanging around. Tucker catches Carolina’s eye where she’s hanging back a little behind the Reds. She cocks an eyebrow and Tucker mouths ‘Locus?’ at her. Understanding in her eyes, she jerks her head toward the base. Makes sense. 

Locus’ll probably hide out till the ship’s gone and… and then what? Tucker doesn’t have a whole lot of time to think about it, because then there’s an elbow in his side knocking the air out of his lungs as Caboose rushes forward to pull Wash into a hug that… actually does look pretty careful. 

He can see a little of Wash’s face over Caboose’s shoulder, and he looks a bit surprised, but his arms wind around Caboose easily and he pats the big idiot’s back. “Hey buddy. I missed you.”

And Wash, bless his fucked up little heart, sounds like he actually means it. Tucker catches his eye and echoes the smile Wash shoots him with a grin so big it kinda hurts a little. He’s back. Jesus fuck it’s good to have him back. 

“Caboose, you gotta let the man breathe at some point,” he says, totally not at all cause he wants his turn. The fact that he’s wandered over and might be rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet totally doesn’t relate to his sudden need to hug Wash at all. 

Wash pats Caboose’s back again and he finally lets go, making this sort of sad puppy whining sound that makes Wash laugh a little. “Don’t worry, Caboose, as soon as I get my stuff back in my room, you can show me all over the base. I’m sure there’s lots of new things for me to see.”

And then he turns toward Tucker and the corner of his mouth quirks up. Wash’s smiles are always a little crooked, and he’s got this tiny scar that runs through his lip and looking at it too long is like staring at the sun. Tucker means to just go for a bro hug. Grab his hand, slap him on the back a few times, y’know, totally not weird. 

But then Wash opens his arms and Tucker sucks in a breath through his nose and all but launches himself into them. Wash is real, fuck, he’s real and alive and solid and breathing and he smells like a hospital and soap and the bandages around his neck kinda make Tucker’s cheek itch, but that doesn’t stop him from pressing his face to the spot where Wash’s neck meets his shoulder and just staying there. 

Wash laughs softly right next to his ear. It’s more obvious now that his voice is a little off, a tiny bit raspy, but still so unmistakably Wash. “You really missed me that much, huh? Maybe I should get shot more often?”

“Don’t you fucking dare, asshole.”

“Buzzkill,” Wash teases, but his arms are strong and sturdy as they go around Tucker’s middle and hold him tight. His fingers curl into the loose shirt Wash is wearing, and he can feel every laugh, every breath where their chests are smashed together. God, he wants to stay there forever. If he could just keep Wash close, keep his laugh in his ear…

But he can’t, and there’s people around. So he gives Wash a squeeze and then pulls back, grabbing at his shoulders as he scans his face. “You’re seriously good, right? This isn’t you ditching the hospital early cause of some brave noble bullshit, right?”

Wash rolls his eyes, but there’s kind of a familiarity to that, and a fondness in his sigh as he pats Tucker’s hands. “Yes, Tucker, I’m good. I wouldn’t be here if Dr. Grey wasn’t convinced I was in good condition to come home.”

Home. That’s what they’re calling it now. Weird, Tucker’s been thinking that too. Not the moon so much. It’s just another place. A decent place, sure, but if they moved somewhere else tomorrow, Tucker would probably forget the details of it in a week. And it hasn’t felt like Home without Wash, but now it all fits, capital letter and everything. 

“Alright then.” And fuck, he doesn’t want to let go. If he could just curl his fingers into the hem of Wash’s shirt and hold on forever, that would be fucking awesome. Just gotta keep touching him to make sure that it doesn’t suddenly stop being real. 

But the others need their turn, so Tucker lets go and steps back. Wash is still smiling at him though, eyes so bright and blue, head tipped a little to one side. Tucker only stops staring when Dr. Grey stands on her tiptoes to get in the way. 

“Captain Tucker! I was hoping I could chat with you for just a moment,” she says, her voice a little too sweet. Uh oh kind of sweet. No arguing kind of sweet, so he lets her grab his arm and pull him a few feet away from the little Red cluster that’s formed around Wash. 

“So what’s up?” he asks, once they’re far enough away that they can hear each other talk. He crosses his arms over his chest and tries not to look as aggressively uncomfortable as he suddenly feels. What if something’s wrong? What if Wash can’t stay? What if--

“Nothing to worry about, sweetie,” she says, because she’s probably a mind reader with that big fucking brain of hers. Or okay, maybe Tucker just has a shit poker face. Both are strong possibilities. “I just wanted to make sure to give you Washington’s medication and treatment plan.”

“Treatment plan?” he repeats, staring at the datapad she hands him. The letters swim before his eyes and he can’t get them to stop. “I thought he was fine.”

“Oh he is, this is just to make sure that everything stays as it should. He only needs to take his medication as needed to help with any pain or discomfort he might experience. We both know how our Agent Washington can be about pushing himself, so I trust you’ll make sure he takes it?” 

Ah, okay, now he gets it. Yeah, giving him the meds is probably a better idea than trusting Wash to actually fucking take care of himself. The guy is amazing at so many things, but Tucker’s pretty sure he’d rather cut his own arm off before admitting he needs so much as a goddamn aspirin. 

“I got it. So how many of these does he take?” he asks, inspecting the little bottle she presses into his hand. Definitely just basic pain meds, he’s probably still got a few lying around from that bottle she gave him after the stabbing incident ages ago. 

“A dose or half dose every few hours depending on how great the pain is. If he needs more, let me know and I’ll have some sent over, but I think this should be enough to last him.”

“Cool. So what about the bandages? When can he take those off?” Tucker glances back over. Wash has Carolina’s arm slung around his shoulders and Donut is holding both of his hands, all of them laughing at something Grif and Simmons are arguing about. And it just looks so fucking right that he’s back there. 

“Oh those? He can take those off whenever he likes,” Dr. Grey says, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “He could’ve taken them off at the hospital, but he insisted that he wanted to wait for some reason.”

Tucker blinks, eyebrows shooting up. “What? Why?”

“I didn’t ask,” she says, bright as ever, but she doesn’t look as happy as she sounds when she glances over at Wash. “I expect he may be a little self-conscious. I did what I could to minimize the scarring, but it is still rather noticeable.”

Huh. That could be it, but that doesn’t sound right somehow. It’s not like Wash doesn’t have other scars. Not like Tucker has spent way too much time looking and thinking about all of them, wondering what it would feel like to run his fingers over them. Or his tongue. Okay, shut up brain, seriously not the time. 

But why would Wash be so worried about hiding this one? He’s got like four on his face that he’s never seemed to give a shit about. What’s different about this one?

Dr. Grey gently pats his arm like a weirdly bangable kindly grandmother. She offers him a little smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “You’ll take good care of him, won’t you.”

It’s not a question, but it doesn’t have to be, cause there’s really only one answer. “Fuck yeah, I will. You need me to send you reports and shit? Like updates on how he’s doing?”

“That won’t be necessary, but if you could call now and then to let me know how things are going here, I would very much appreciate it.”

“I can do that, no problem.” And he thought she had dragged him over here to give him the worst fucking news. Disaster averted. 

She looks thoughtful. Which is always a bad thing for someone. “There is one thing…”

Shit. Here it comes. 

“The lieutenants were a little… fuzzy on the details of how he got to the hospital. It almost sounds as though they heard a few conflicting stories from you and your friends about just how that happened. But I’m sure they must have just been a little confused.” She smiles like one of those little flesh eating fish Tucker saw a documentary about when he was six that made him terrified of aquariums for months.

Alright, just… no panicking. She probably can’t actually read his mind. Unless she can, but then the joke’s on her cause Tucker’s just gonna sing shitty pop songs in his head until she stops. Just don’t think about Locus. Fuck, he’s doing it now. Stop. And his face is probably doing all kinds of stupid things right now. Fucking say something!

“Uh.” Perfect. So fucking smooth, good job everyone, let’s pack it up and go home. 

Okay, come on brain, work with him for once. He sucks in a breath through his nose and shrugs, glancing over at Wash. It’s easier to think not looking at Grey. “Honestly, I barely remember. So much shit was going down, we probably did tell them a bunch of shit. Everyone was kinda freaking out, y’know? I didn’t even know what the fuck was happening till Wash was gone, didn’t even know where the hell he was going.”

Which isn’t… a total lie. Okay yeah, yeah it’s mostly a lie until the part where he had no idea where Locus was taking Wash. And he might have spent a good twenty minutes staring into space wondering about it after it was too late to stop Locus and force his way onto that goddamn ship to come with them. 

Grey pats his arm again and maybe his face just looks that pathetic, cause she doesn’t push the issue, her expression going back to hot grandma and not murder fish. “I see. Well, if you ever remember just how he got to us, I would be happy to hear the story. I’m sure it’s quite thrilling.”

“Yeah, will do.” He nods, the vice clamped around his heart easing up a little. It’s not like they can hide Locus for ever and… he’s gotta answer to the people of Chorus someday, but not today. 

She gives his arm a little squeeze and then heads back over to Wash, the Reds parting to let her through to talk to Wash. Tucker doesn’t mean to, but he glances back toward the base. Locus is probably hanging out on top of it, watching from the safety of his camo unit. The dude’s not half as sneaky as he thinks he is. Locus doesn’t seem to understand that people don’t think you’re half as scary after they’ve seen you shuffling around in sweatpants making tea that smells like a weird combination of feet and cotton candy.

Tucker squints, almost trying to make out the glint off the sniper rifle he still uses to spy on them, cause he can’t just get a telescope like a normal person. Nothing. Maybe he’s inside making more foot tea. Whatever. He turns back toward the others. Grey’s probably about ready to head out. She’s talking to Wash, but…

But she’s looking right at Tucker. Oh. Oh fuck. She saw him looking at a whole bunch of nothing on top of the base. Shit. Okay, okay think about this. She’s smart, but is she smart enough to put the dots together? Probably. 

That other shoe’s about to drop and squash him like a fucking bug. Come on. Not today. It’s a good day. They just got Wash back. 

It feels like a million years pass in a couple seconds as Grey’s eyes slowly flick to the base and then back to him. The smile she gives him isn’t a nice one, but she winks and he has no idea what the fuck that means. But she doesn’t seem to say anything to the others about whatever that was she just figured out. She turns back to Wash and gives him a brief hug and kisses Sarge’s cheek before heading back onto the ship. 

Huh. Crisis averted? Maybe? He doesn’t fucking know. Probably won’t know till she gets back to Chorus. God, what if she goes straight to Kimball with this? She’s gonna hate them. Hate him. What if Kimball doesn’t want them on the moon anymore cause they’ve got Locus there? Shit, they’ll have to pack up and move. Maybe they can just finally head back to Blood Gulch or--

“Tucker?” Wash is right in front of him, when the fuck did that happen? He’s got a little concerned wrinkle between his eyebrows that’s dotted with freckles. “Is everything okay?”

“Huh? Yeah, I’m good.” He slaps a grin onto his face. Maybe he’s worrying about nothing. Just don’t think about it and maybe shit will figure itself out. Grey likes them, maybe she won’t rat them out. “C’mon, lets get your stuff inside, yeah?”

Wash frowns like he wants to ask more, but he lets it drop. Good, cause Tucker doesn’t need to spew molten nonsense at the guy right when he gets home. They can talk about serious shit later. Wash doesn’t have a whole lot of stuff with him. They had visited him in the hospital a few times and dropped off some clothes, so he’s just got two bags full of sweatpants and his armor left near where the Reds had ambushed him. 

Tucker grabs one of the bags before Wash can stop him and starts walking before he can protest. He’s not going to try to carry both, because then Wash would pitch a fit and they’d be there all fucking day. But just one is only enough to make Wash sigh heavily as he goes for the other. 

Despite Caboose’s insistences before that he had to show Wash around the base again, Tucker’s pretty sure not much has changed. Wash’s room is just where he left it, right between Tucker’s and Caboose’s. And he’s pretty sure no one has touched it… well, after that first night they got back to the moon where he may or may not have slept in Wash’s bed. Or the night after that. But he only did it twice and he made the bed after, so it’s not weird. 

All the rooms are a little wonky shapewise. Wash’s is probably the most normal there, the corners all pretty much basic, room type corners, unlike Caboose’s seven sided mess next door. It’s pretty clean too, the little desk in the corner Wash made himself out of cinderblocks and old bits of slightly singed wood has a bit of clutter on top, but that’s pretty much it. Unlike Tucker, Wash actually tried to prop his mattress off the ground a little, shoving boxes under each corner to keep it up. He’s got sheets too, which Tucker would have if he ever remembered to do laundry after that time he spilled coffee all over them. 

For a mess of a person, Wash at least has his room pretty put together. It’s not perfect, but that’s what makes him human and not a robot. 

Tucker sets the bag down and drops onto the edge of Wash’s bed, watching the room’s owner glance around at it. “Don’t think anyone’s been in here much since we got back, all your shit should still be where you left it.”

Except for that one t-shirt Tucker might have under his pillow because it smelled like Wash. But that’s soooo not important and he’ll just shove that back into Wash’s stuff the next time he does laundry. And really, it was Tucker’s shirt first, because apparently Freelancers are allergic to actually having material possessions, so all of Wash’s clothes (except for a pair of sweats with the Freelancer logo all over them that he’s never seen Wash actually wear) are various shades of red and blue, making it pretty clear just who donated what. 

Wash nods a little, looking around the room with this sort of awed expression, like he didn’t think he’d ever see it again. Which… is probably what the asshole thought. Fucking drama queen. 

“You know… I was starting to think we wouldn’t be coming back here,” Wash says, shaking his head a little. Yup, giant fucking drama monster. Tucker can’t believe how much he missed that. 

Snorting, he rolls his eyes. “Dude, we weren’t even gone that long.”

“I know. It just… felt long.” And his eyes get a little darker and Tucker hates it. 

“Yeah… I’ll bet.” Must’ve felt like he and Carolina were stuck in that fucker’s murder basement forever. Tucker’s hands clench at the edge of the mattress. “But it’s all good now, no more bullshit to deal with.”

Wash looks over at him and does this big chest sigh, eyes getting all weird and soft. “No more bullshit,” he agrees. “I think I only remember about… half of what happened anyway.”

Tucker cocks an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Wash nods as he starts to put his things away. “It gets… fuzzy. I was pretty out of it for a while, not sure what was actually happening and what was just in my head.”

There’s a little guilt knife in his gut that Wash keeps twisting. Tucker blows out a breath and stares at the ceiling. “That must’ve fucking sucked.”

He sees Wash shrug out of the corner of his eye. “It wasn’t all bad. Some of the hallucinations were sort of fun.”

Wash pauses in the middle of folding his socks, what a nerd. He looks over at Tucker, lip caught between his teeth uncertainly. “Did… did Locus really come back?”

Tucker’s eyes get wide. Oh right. Wash was super messed up for all of that. And he hasn’t been around. So he doesn’t know. Well fuck… that might make shit weird. 

He nods slowly. “Yeah, he did. He’s the one that got you to Chorus, kinda saved all of our asses back there. He’s uh… still hanging around. That gonna be okay?”

Frowning, Wash’s gaze drops back to his socks. None of them match. Slowly, he nods. “I think so. I guess I sort of owe him, don’t I? As long as he doesn’t hurt anyone, I don’t mind him being here.”

“He hasn’t.” Tucker presses a hand to the side of his neck before he even thinks twice about it. And of course Wash notices, because he has fucking spider senses for whenever Tucker doesn’t something stupid. 

Brow immediately furrowing, Wash sets down the shirt he was folding and moves to stand over Tucker, gently pushing at his forehead to try to tip his head so he can see the cut Tucker’s trying to hide. It doesn’t look that bad. Tucker had taken the bandage off the day before to find the thin line of it pretty much scabbed over and healing. Up close though, it’s pretty hard to hide. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he insists as Wash nudges his hand out of the way. 

That doesn’t make Wash look any happier about it as he traces the line of it with two callus covered fingers. Tucker bites at the inside of his cheek and tries to ignore the little shivery feeling that goes down his spine. Yeah, okay, it’s been way too fucking long since he got laid. Maybe he should ask Donut how desperate he’s feeling later. Just to get this shit out of his system for a while. 

“What happened?” Uh oh. That’s Wash’s ‘serious business’ voice.

Tucker sighs and rolls his eyes. Because this so isn’t a big deal, but Wash is so going to make it into one. “I’m only telling you if you swear you won’t get pissed.”

“Tucker--”

“Dude, c’mon. It’s not something worth flipping your shit over, so promise you’re not gonna do something stupid or I’m not telling,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. Two people can place the ‘serious face’ game. Tucker’s pretty proud of his own. He’s practiced it in the mirror a few times. 

Wash’s thumb brushes the cut and okay, that’s so not helpful for Tucker staying focused and serious about this, but he doesn’t blink. The long suffering sigh, like not freaking out is such a fucking burden, is so not necessary, but Wash’s shoulders slump in defeat. “I won’t do anything stupid.”

“Pinky promise?”

“Tucker.”

“Okay, okay.” Great. Now the actual telling him part. Okay, maybe if he just puts it right. “It’s kinda my fault, see… Locus was having a nightmare..”

Wash’s eyebrow goes up and his lips get real thin and this is off to a bad start. Maybe if he just charges through the rest. “And I just woke him up and he pulled a knife on me--but he didn’t mean to, he was still like half asleep and wait Wash, what the fuck--”

Tucker scrambles up from the bed and grabs at Wash’s shirt, trying to stop him from stomping out of the room. He digs his heels in enough to slow him down and then darts around Wash, kicking the door shut and flattening himself to it, arms spread wide to stop him opening it again. Wash has murder face, but his hands are gentle when he tries to pull at Tucker’s shoulder to get him out of the way. 

“Tucker move--”

“Nope. Dude, you just fucking promised not to do anything stupid!” He digs his fingers into the wall, and he’s probably got a few splinters now, but he’s not fucking moving. 

Wash huffs, but he stops pulling at him, taking a step back so he can glare at Tucker. “I won’t, but I’m not letting him stay if he’s dangerous.”

Tucker scoffs and it comes out a little more than he means it to as he cocks an eyebrow at Wash. “Oh come on, it’s not like he was  _ trying _ to attack me. This isn’t half as bad as that time I tried waking Caboose up and he body slammed me into a wall. Or,” and he hates pulling this card, he really does, “that time I woke you up and you almost shot me.”

The color drains from Wash’s face and Tucker hates himself. “Tucker, I--”

“Ooooh no, we are not starting that shit again,” Tucker says, holding up a hand. He’s done this before, the guilt, the ‘woe is me, I’m a monster’ thing, and he’s so not in the fucking mood to do it again. “This is not a you problem, Wash. It’s not a Caboose problem, or even a fucking Locus problem. It’s a me problem. I’m the one that keeps waking you fuckers up, so if you’re gonna yell at anyone for being stupid, yell at me, alright?”

Wash makes a couple different faces. At first it looks like he wants to argue, but then guilt creeps up and shoves that away, then he just sighs and rubs at the back of his neck. “I’m not going to yell at you. I… you were just trying to help. I just wish… I want you to be safe.”

“I am. I will be. I’m all about doing the safe things. No danger over here,” he says, flashing Wash a grin, that just gets another sigh in response. 

“Alright. But… if anything serious does happen, will you tell me?”

“I dunno, maybe.” Tucker shrugs, still grinning in the face of yet a third Wash sigh. “Look, dude, I can handle myself. And I’ve learned my lesson, no more shaking people out of nightmares or I’m probably gonna get knifed in the face. I’ll be more careful next time.” 

For some reason that makes Wash give him this weird look, the kind of look Simmons had when he found his old calculator had survived the fire. Like a happy-sad-disbelief kinda mush. Whatever it is, it’s hard to look at for long, so Tucker glances away, absently rubbing a hand over the cut on his neck. Which reminds him--

He looks back up at Wash, eyes going to the bandages around his neck. “So dude, what’s with that?” he asks, pointing at it. “Grey said you could take those off whenever.”

And whatever that look was, it’s gone now, replaced by a slight flush as Wash’s hands fly to the bandages and he starts staring at the corner of his desk. “I… I was just going to wait a bit longer.”

“Why?” Cause honestly, Tucker can’t figure out why. And… that’s kind of bugging him. Usually, he’s pretty good at figure out what’s going on in Wash’s head. 

Wash picks at the edge of the bandages. “There’s a scar.”

Tucker blinks at him. “Uh yeah, no shit, dude. That’s what happens when you get shot. You’ve got tons of scars.”

“I know, but…” Wash makes a face that looks like he’s trying to frown and chew on his lips at the same time. “I’ve had most of those for a while, since before I met all of you. This one… I don’t want you to look at it and just think back to how it happened all the time.”

Oh.  _ Oh _ . Well shit. Okay, Tucker doesn’t really know what to tell him about that, cause… cause yeah, he’s probably going to look at that scar and not be able to think about anything else. Anything other than Wash walking out, the shot going off, blood, so much blood. Wash on the floor, choking on his own blood. Dying. Dying dying dying. His fault. 

Yeah, alright, maybe he gets that. But, and it’s the weirdest thing, it’s nice? Not the scar. But that Wash doesn’t want them seeing it and freaking out. Like, holy shit. That’s the kind of thoughtful bullshit that makes Wash actually good at the whole leader thing.

So he takes a breath and decides he’s not going to. Not where Wash can see him anyway. Wash has enough shit to deal with. 

Tucker takes a step forward, edging his way into Wash’s personal space. He reaches up slow, cause Wash gets twitchy about injuries, which he totally gets. It still sucks when people touch his stomach without warning. So no sudden moves as he presses his hands to Wash’s collarbone and slowly slides up. Wash tenses under his hands and his own fly up to curl around Tucker’s forearms, but he doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t look at him either, which Tucker isn’t sure about, but whatever. 

He finds the end of the bandages and slowly unwraps them, carefully pulling them from Wash’s throat and then just… dropping them on the floor. Fuck it, Wash can pick those up later. Tucker has other things to focus on, like the tight knot in his chest that forms when he actually gets a good look at what’s under those bandages. 

There’s two scars. The one where the bullet went in is little and round, a slight puckered dip in Wash’s skin. Not so bad. The other is worse. A lot worse. It’s bigger. It looks like Grey tried her best to sew it up neatly, but it’s a little jagged around the edges, still pink and angry in places. 

Don’t think about it. Don’t picture Wash just lying there and bleeding and bleeding and bleeding. 

Tucker sucks in a deep breath and then lets his fingers brush over it, slow and gentle. Wash still shivers, hands tensing a little where he’s gripping at Tucker. Huh… now that’s not nothing. And it gives him an idea. 

“Doesn’t look too bad to me,” he says, carefully casual. Then he leans in, and Wash is a little taller than him, four fucking inches that he never stops lording over him, so he doesn’t have to duck his head much to press a kiss to the scar. He feels more than hears Wash’s breath hitch. 

Crap. Maybe that’s too much. It’s always felt like there was a big old question marked something going on with him and Wash. There’s been moments here and there, but they’ve never talked about it, cause that’s what functional people do and Tucker’s pretty sure he and Wash are closer to sentient action figures with raging guilt boners than responsible adults. But sometimes, the air between them gets all hot and charged and he can’t stop looking at Wash’s lips and thinking about putting his own in a few places that aren’t really meant for just friends. 

And then there was this one time, so brief that Tucker sometimes thinks he might’ve cooked it up in his shitty, touch starved brain. Back when they had finally gotten around to having a party to celebrate the whole ‘not everyone on Chorus dying’ thing, he and Wash had stumbled back to his room once things were winding down, and they had fallen into his bed together, laughing at something stupid. He doesn’t even remember what it was, but anything they were saying stopped mattering once he’d looked at Wash and started leaning in. 

It had been brief and soft and so gentle, Tucker wanted to fucking melt. And then it ended and they curled together until Caboose burst in the next morning to tell them all about the moon Kimball was going to give them for all their hard work. 

Then things had started moving so fast with them leaving, there wasn’t time to talk about it. And once they actually got to the moon, it just… seemed weird to bring it up again. Tucker had caught Wash watching him a few times, but if he wasn’t going to say anything, Tucker sure as fuck wouldn’t be the one to start that conversation. 

But now they’re here and Wash is alive and he can’t fucking remember why it had seemed like such a big deal to not talk about it. Tucker kisses the scar again, lips lingering there for almost a minute. Then he starts moving, trailing kisses over Wash’s adam’s apple, which bobs in a way that’s weirdly satisfying. He gets around to the other scar and stays there, lips parting. 

He’s pretty fucking sure Wash isn’t breathing anymore, his hands twitching where they’ve slid up to Tucker’s biceps. Tucker’s not sure if that’s a sign that means stop or keep going. Fuck it. He drags his tongue over the scar and Wash gasps and does this whole body tremble as he leans into him. 

Okay, that’s hot. Fuck, okay, he’s supposed to be… proving some kind of point here. But suddenly Tucker’s brain is just doing tons of calculations trying to figure out the fastest way to get Wash’s pants off. 

But no. No stop that. Bad brain. He’s doing… doing a thing. Not a dick thing. Emotional thing. Right. Yes. That’s the idea here. Emotions, making Wash feel good--but not with his dick. Not right now anyway. 

That can come later. Heh. Come. 

Focus damn it. 

Tucker lifts his head up, meeting Wash’s eyes, which almost completely shut down his whole attempt at focusing right there. Wash is looking at him through his weird blonde eyelashes and his face is kind of flushed, his bitten lips parted like he can’t catch his breath. Fuck damn it, that’s not fair. 

“I like them,” Tucker says, and his voice comes out a lot lower and breathier than he means it to. “Your scars.”

“Huh?” Wash blinks at him a few times and then makes a few noises that definitely aren’t words. And okay, maybe Tucker gets this little warm flutter of pride at that. Cause he made Wash turn into a babbling idiot with just a little neck tonguing. Awesome. 

“Oh,” Wash says, once he gets it together a little more. “Thanks. I… I like yours too.” 

Wash shuts his eyes and goes redder and Tucker grins so wide, cause he can see the internal cringe gears working in Wash’s head right now, and that’s fucking amazing. Snorting a little, he cocks an eyebrow. “Yeah? You think they’re hot, right?”

“Shut up.”

“You’re so into me, huh?”

“You’re terrible.” But that’s not a no and he’s sure that the corner of Wash’s mouth is twitching like he wants to smile. “I might be. I can’t seem to remember why though.”

“I don’t blame you, dude, I’m pretty awesome,” he says, still grinning, that flutter of pride growing by the second. 

“No, you’re the worst.” Wash lets out a breath and his hands move from Tucker’s arms to his back and then slowly down to his waist like he’s not quite sure where to put them or what they’re doing. Which is fair. Tucker has no fucking clue either. 

“Nah, you like me. But it’s cool, Wash. You’re super hot too. Like I said, I’m into the scars.” To prove his point, he stands on tiptoe to kiss the line that runs across the bridge of Wash’s nose. 

Wash snorts, opening one eye to look at him. “Good to know, I suppose.”

Tucker hums at him and keeps going. He kisses the scar that runs down the side of Wash’s face a few times, then the smaller one next to it that runs over Wash’s cheek bone. Then he moves to Wash’s lower lip. His mouth is still a little open, so Tucker catches his lower lip between his teeth and gives a slight tug. 

The noise Wash makes is going to play in Tucker’s wet dream for ten years. 

Alright, this is… this is awesome. But Wash just got out of the hospital. He’s probably tired. And there’s people around. Caboose is next door, Grif and Simmons are across the way and Locus is right down the hall and--

Locus. Fuck. A blanket gets thrown over that warm feeling in his chest and it snuffs it right the fuck out. The beach thing was like four days ago. They haven’t talked about it either. But it still happened. And now he’s here and he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing and his dick hates him. 

Pulling back, he ducks his head, resting his forehead against Wash’s shoulder and just tries to breathe for a second. Okay, just gotta think, how bad is this? It’s not like he’s a thing with Locus. It’s not like he even wants to be a thing with him. It just… just happened. And it was nice and yeah, maybe he’d want to do it again. 

But then there’s Wash. Wash, who’s warm and alive against him right fucking now, Wash who he’s been missing like he’s had a chunk of his guts torn out, Wash who puts up with him and laughs at his stupid jokes and doesn’t take his shit. 

“Tucker?” Wash sounds concerned and the guilt knife is back and feeling stabby. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good just…” Terrible. The Worst. A gross excuse of a person. A fucking idiot who lets his dick make all his big decisions. “Tired.”

Wash hums, soft and understanding and he rubs Tucker’s back. “You should sleep then. I think it is getting kind of late.”

Tucker grunts noncommittally, because he doesn’t actually want to sleep. Even if he tried, he’s not sure that he could right now. Not that he’s not tired, cause now that he’s said it, he realizes just how true it is. Maybe he needs a new fucking mattress, cause he can’t seem to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time on his own right now. 

Fingers move into his hair and Wash’s head leans against his and he hears a little yawn next to him that makes him snort. “What about you? Sounds like you could use some sleep too, dude.”

“Mm me? I’m fine.” Wash doesn’t even sound like he’s trying to be convincing. He sways a little on the spot, though probably less because he’s tried and more just that he wants to move a bit, which ends up pulling Tucker closer against him. Wash’s arm wraps around his waist and holds him there. God that’s nice. 

Maybe it’s not just Tucker’s dick that’s been missing getting close with people. He nuzzles Wash’s neck a little and lets out a breath. Wash shivers and there’s a bubble of satisfaction that he has to pop almost immediately. Stop. Stop stop stop. He just needs to not do things and just… take a day to sort through shit. 

Yeah, yeah that’ll help. But until then… 

He lifts his head up and glances over Wash’s face. It would be so easy to lean in close and taste that scar on his lip again. But Tucker doesn’t. “Mind if I pass out here for a while? My bed sucks.”

Wash looks a little surprised, but he doesn’t say no. “That’s fine. I should finish unpacking--”

Tucker rolls his eyes so hard it kinda hurts. “Oh my god. You can do that literally any time, dude. C’mon, just… take a nap with me, okay?”

Instead of protests about how Wash has to do this right now actually, he just gets a laugh and a small nod. “Fine. Just for a few hours though.”

“Works for me.” That’s more than good enough to get Tucker grinning again as he draws back, pulling Wash’s arm to drag him toward the bed. 

The mattress is a little cramped with two people, Wash having insisted ages ago on taking a tiny twin so the rest of the could have nicer ones like the asshole he is. They make it work and Tucker presses himself to Wash’s back, an arm around his middle and a leg over his hip. Wash doesn’t seem to have a problem with the arrangement, settling against Tucker and letting out this tiny little sigh that’s fucking kitten-like when Tucker’s lips brush the back of his neck. 

Wash must be way more exhausted than he let on, like that’s anything new, cause he’s out in just a couple minutes, chest rising and falling slow and even. At first, Tucker sort of tries to sleep, but yeah… it’s not happening. 

Not like he’s really that tired, and he can sleep later. He shouldn’t fall asleep anyway. If Wash has a nightmare, he’s gotta talk him down. There’s too much going around and around in his head right now. So he just lays there, listening to Wash’s even breathing and has no idea what the fuck to do about anything. 

* * *

So running on twenty minutes of sleep sucks. Even after his nap with Wash, during which he’d probably slept maybe five minutes at most, Tucker hadn’t figured out shit. Which led to a super fun night of just staring at the goddamn ceiling.

Asshole ceiling didn’t even tell him what to do about this bullshit. 

Right now the plan is to just… do nothing and hope shit works itself out. And maybe try extra hard not to be a dick to Locus cause there’s some shitty feelings he can’t quite get to fuck off. Just gotta pretend the guy isn’t a giant tool who murdered half a planet that he’d also really, really like to get pinned against a wall by so his dick will finally calm the fuck down. Easy. 

That suddenly gets less easy when he trudges into the kitchen and finds a very shirtless Locus already there, drinking his usual mug of weird smelling tea. Today he’s gone with something that manages to smell like flowers, armpit, and bacon grease at the same time. He gives Locus a nod and a half smile and gets… basically nothing in response, just the quickest flick of Locus’ eyes his way before they go back to the datapad on the cardboard table in front of him. 

Maybe Locus isn’t even actually that into him and it won’t be an issue. Psssh, yeah right, Tucker knows he’s hot as hell, even with the bags under his eyes. He’s probably tired, the bags under his eyes give Tucker’s a run for their fucking money right now

Whatever, Tucker’s not going to try to make the dude talk to him if he doesn’t want to, so he turns toward the coffee pot. He’s not feeling the six day old dregs, so he dumps those out and starts a new pot going. The ancient machine makes several unhappy noises and probably puts a curse on Tucker’s family as it slowly comes back to life. It conks out twice and Tucker smacks the side of it. 

“Stupid fucking thing…”

“Do you need assistance?” So now Locus gives a shit. Tucker glances at him over his shoulder and shakes his head. 

“Nah, this thing’s just old as fuck. Never wants to start up right.” He gives the machine a little shake and reluctantly it starts up properly this time. “See, there it goes.”

Tucker stands back, hands on hips, chest puffed out. Usually someone has to get Sarge to threaten the machine with a screw driver for ten minutes before it starts going. There’s a soft noise from Locus and he glances over to find him watching, mouth twitching like he’s thinking about smiling some time this century. “Hmm… for some reason I thought you all just liked old coffee.”

Tucker snorts. “Seriously? Nah, dude, we’ve had this thing for ages, pretty sure it was the Reds’ back in Blood Gulch.”

Locus blinks at him. “Blood Gulch?”

And there’s a weird moment where Tucker realizes that of course Locus doesn’t fucking know what Blood Gulch is. He has no reason to. Locus has probably seen their files, cause he’s the creepy kind of guy that would read that shit, but why the hell would he bother remembering their shitty first base?

“Oh yeah, that’s where me and the guys were stationed first, well most of us, I think.” His brow furrows a little as he moves to lean against the counter, trying to think back. Okay, it’s less of an actual kitchen counter and more just an assortment of cardboard, wooden, and metal boxes that are close ish to the same size that they can use as cupboards. 

So the base sorta sucks in a lot of ways, but the Reds tried their best to make it sort of homey, which Tucker can kind of appreciate. Not that he’s ever going to stop giving them shit for it. 

“That must’ve been… shit, like ten years ago, I guess, and they’ve carried this fucking machine along with them the whole way. Don’t ask me how, I don’t fucking know, dude. It might’ve been part of their robot for a while, that’s how they got the microwave here,” he says, nodding at said monstrosity. 

It’s less a microwave oven in the traditional sense of the thing, and more a slightly melted hunk of plastic and metal that somehow still manages to make decent popcorn. Standing next to it when it’s on makes Tucker’s fillings vibrate though, so he doesn’t use it much. 

Locus nods slowly, regarding the coffee machine with a look that might mean he’s impressed. Or horrified. Or a little of both. But apparently that’s not the part he’s most interested in. “You’ve been a soldier for ten years then?”

“Uh yeah, I guess. I mean like… I was pretty shit at it for a while till I got the ambassador gig and started helping the aliens with their shit. But yeah, technically.” It’s… sort of weird to think about like that. Ten years of his life doing this. It seems odd to think about doing anything that long, and it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it’s been that long… but at the same time, he can barely remember doing anything else. 

“How old were you when you joined up?” Locus has intense focusing face for some reason, his mouth more frowny than usual. He’s trying to get at something here, or… maybe this is how he makes small talk? Whatever, Tucker’s trying to not be a dick to the guy so answering a couple questions is probably fine. 

“Eighteen. Just got outta high school and I figured chicks love army dudes, so why not?” He snorts at himself, shaking his head a little. 

Locus looks like he’s struggling between getting even more pissy looking or letting up a little. “And how did that work out for you?”

Apparently he’s lightening up, cause that sure as hell almost sounds like teasing. Tucker shrugs, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Not so great with the chicks, but if dudes like an army guy, I can work with that too.”

“I surmised as much.” And Locus fucking smirks at him and gives him some intense bedroom eyes over the top of his mug before he takes a long sip and Tucker can’t even be mad because how the hell did he get that smooth? 

Fuck, that’s flirting. Are they flirting right now? Has he been flirting? Goddamn it, he’s supposed to be doing… not that. For a reason that suddenly seems way less important than Locus’ stupid long eyelashes. 

There’s definitely a reason though. If he could just remember…

“Morning Tucker.” And in walks his reason, blonde bedhead and sleepy eyes going straight for the coffee machine. Wash fishes two mugs out of the cupboard and starts pouring. 

“Sup man,” Tucker says when Wash presses a mug into his hands. It turns out, even their fresh coffee kinda sucks, but Tucker takes a long sip anyway, cause it’s either that or Grif’s weird energy drinks, which he’s pretty sure have a label written in a language that’s definitely not human. 

Wash loads up his own mug with cream and sugar before trying it and letting out a content sigh. But he looks a lot less content when he finally glances across the makeshift table. “Locus.”

“Agent Washington.” Shit, that sounds curt and clipped too. Ooookay, the kitchen is already small and suddenly feels like it’s shrunk to about half that size. Tucker’s hands and stomach itch and he wants to be anywhere else. 

Just stay cool, dissolve the tension. Tucker busies himself, grabbing a bowl and a box of cereal. “Hey, can y’all wait till after breakfast to beat the shit out of each other? It’s too fucking early for this.”

He says it casual, like he’s making a joke, but it does the job and gets them to stop the creepy intense staring, turning to him instead. Okay, never mind, bad idea. Don’t look at him. Tucker shoves a massive handful of cereal into his mouth in case they want him to say something, realizing a little too late that this is Simmons’ shitty healthy cereal and he’s also pretty sure the ants got in that cupboard and he just shoved like twenty of them in his mouth. 

“We aren’t going to fight,” Wash says quickly. “I was just saying good morning.”

“Were you?” Locus sounds skeptical and this is how Tucker dies, caught in the crossfire between two hot assholes with a mouth full of whole grain and ants. Alright, come on, he can think of a way out of this, if his brain would just work with him for once. 

There’s sort of a sink type thing in the corner of the kitchen that Simmons and Sarge worked out ages ago. It doesn’t always work right away, and sometimes the water comes out green and smelling like death, but it’s kind of Tucker’s only option right now for dealing with at least one problem. His rushes over, maybe with a little extra flailing because if Wash and Locus are looking at him, they’re probably not killing each other, and spits into the sink and decides to just rinse his mouth out with coffee rather than risk the water. 

Much better. Okay, one crisis averted. He looks up to find both of them watching him, mostly looking confused, though Locus is half out of his seat, looking like he wants to come over to help. Wash has taken a few steps his way too. Huh. Weird. 

“Tucker, are you okay?” Wash asks, looking at him dubiously.

“Fine, just throw out that fucking cereal, it tastes like ass.” He takes another long swig of coffee. “Look, I gotta go running with Carolina. You two just… don’t start shit, alright? I already gotta babysit Caboose half the time, so work out whatever the fuck your problem is, cause the rest of us don’t wanna deal with it.”

And Tucker turns on his heel and walks out. It takes all of one second for him to feel like an asshole. He shouldn’t have just left like that. Wash and Locus could probably use someone there to mediate or whatever. But… it shouldn’t be him. Not right now. Not with all the bullshit in his own head that could get in the way. Maybe he can get Donut to talk to them, he’s good with feelings and shit. 

The guilt doesn’t make him go back though. Not like he could walk back in there after that exit without looking like an idiot and a douchebag. And he’s just… just too damn tired. Tomorrow, that’s when he’ll try and fix this. Tomorrow for sure. 

* * *

It takes a lot longer to get to tomorrow than Tucker expects. 

Training with Carolina doesn’t suck too much. Lately, he’s actually started to like it. Not that he’s going to stop complaining, because if she realizes that he’s enjoying himself, she’s going to start working him twice as hard, and he’s pretty sure that would actually kill him. They do all the usual stuff, running, stretches, a couple dozen push ups with him on her back and then her pushing down on his and then all the basic warm up shit before they start sparring a little. 

It’s not until the second time that she gets him pinned that he notices they have an audience. Carolina pulls him to his feet and then pauses to wave at someone over his shoulder. 

Tucker follows her gaze and finds Wash and Locus sitting several feet away at a picnic blanket with Donut and Caboose. Okay, Tucker would pay good money to learn how the hell that happened. The four of them are on a little hill that’s raised just a bit above the flat area that Carolina’s made into her training grounds. It’s not the first time Caboose and Donut have been up there while he and Carolina try to beat the crap out of each other. Well, it’s mostly him doing the trying, she can kick his ass easy. 

Wash used to join them for training now and then, but he’s making a good call not trying today cause Grey’s notes had made it pretty clear that physical exertion isn’t on the fucking menu, and Tucker’s sure that between him and Carolina, they aren’t letting Wash win that fight if he tries to pick it. Locus has jumped in now and then since he’s been hanging around. At first, Tucker had refused to get near the guy. But then Carolina had pointed out that they both use the same primary weapon, so really it makes sense for them to train together. 

Tucker might have spit in her shoes after that. She hadn’t been wrong though. 

Before Locus got there, Carolina had gotten Sarge to make a few practice weapons, some more sword shaped than others, and working with those sort of helped. Actually practicing with Locus and the wooden sword models had been a whole new experience. Tucker’s owning up to it right after he admits that he has the words to every Justin Timblerlake song memorized, so just after never fucking ever, but working with him is definitely helping. 

But he’s not calling him over now. Not today. Everything’s already too fucking weird without dealing with Locus sweating in his personal space. 

Carolina seems to pick up… something from whatever face he’s making, cause she gives him a nudge and then goes over to the little shed she and Sarge built where she keeps all the training shit. Sometimes, Carolina is his favorite, like right now when she doesn’t go for the swords, but instead grabs a pair of long, smooth wooden rods and tosses him one. Tucker catches it easy and tests the weight, even though he’s used this thing a couple dozen times. 

It had been one of the first pieces of equipment Carolina had come up with while she and Sarge were still trying to figure out how to replicate the weight and feel of his sword. When they got it, they got it fucking down, which… is actually really cool. Tucker’s not sure why they bothered, he never asked, but the wooden swords are kick ass. 

“Ready?” Carolina’s already squaring up before he nods. “We’ll start easy then I’ll speed it up.”

Tucker resists the urge to roll his eyes, she always makes him pay for that. “Yeah, yeah, I know the deal. Let’s do this shit.”

One of the first things Tucker had learned about training with Carolina is that even her ‘not fast’ is pretty fucking fast. He’s still not at her level, not even close, but he’s a fast learner and he thinks that, if they were ever in an actual fight, he might last… maybe five minutes before she kicked the crap out of him. Which he’s pretty proud of honestly. 

So when she comes at him, he meets her blow for blow almost without thinking. They go back and forth over the trimmed down grass, wood clacking against wood. Carolina does a lot more twirling and shit, with the natural motion that comes after years of practice. She’s shown Tucker how to do a few tricks, but he keeps to the basics when there’s a risk of her clocking him in the face. 

She pushes him almost to the edge of the training area, but he catches a blow on his stick and uses it to force her back and off balance for a second. Catching herself, she gives an approving nod. “Again.”

They move back to the middle and start again, faster this time. Tucker knows from the start that he’s off. He can’t quite match her speed and she pushes him to the edge in less than a minute and sweeps his legs. The ground comes up to meet him and the air goes out of him for a second. Damn it. Usually he can handle that easy. What the fuck is wrong with him?

“Hey, Carolina, you don’t have to go so hard on him.” Right. That’s why. Wash is there to watch him eat shit. Locus too. When he looks over, they’re both halfway to standing, probably to come over and see how pathetic he is. Just what he fucking needs. The slight ache to his back is nothing compared to the way his face burns. 

“He’s fine,” Carolina calls back, totally unconcerned. Which she should be, because she’s right. She offers him a hand and Tucker takes it, getting to his feet and brushing himself off. She cocks an eyebrow at him. “Again?”

It’s more of a question this time, but he nods without a second thought. That had been the problem before. Too much thinking. Too in his head. 

They move back to the center and Tucker sucks in a breath. Relax. He knows this. They’ve done this a hundred times. He can fucking do this. 

And he does. 

This time it’s easy, natural almost. Step, duck, block, strike. Each motion leads into the next simple as breathing. Carolina’s still miles better with all her twists and spins, but he keeps up, meets her at every turn even when she starts picking up the pace. Somewhere along the long, she starts grinning and he can’t help but mirror her. 

Because he can do this, he can really do this. 

They go back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, faster and faster. He feels loose and liquid, moving as easy as water down a hill. Back in the middle and wood slams against wood as they come to a stop. Tucker’s breathing hard and a little bit of sweat trickles down the side of his face, but it feels fucking good. 

It takes him a second to notice the applause. Looking over, he finds Donut and Caboose cheering, bouncing where they sit. But what gets him is the way Locus and Wash are looking at him. He would take awe, or nods of approval. But that’s not quite what he sees. There’s a little of the first bit, but mostly, they look hungry. 

Fuck. The last time someone looked at him like that, Tucker spent a weekend learning words for positions he didn’t even know were physically possible and ended up walking funny for a week. 

He doesn’t get a chance to consider what to do with that for too long cause Carolina takes the stick out of his loose grip and sweeps his legs out from under him with it and the ground says hello again. Maybe he should just stay there for a while, because he has no idea what the fuck is waiting for him when he gets up. 

Carolina kneels next to him and pulls at his shoulder until he sits up. “What’ve you gotten yourself into, Tucker?”

It sounds like she’s two seconds away from laughing at him, but she still gives him a hand up that he takes. “Great fucking question. I have no idea. Help?”

She just snorts and shakes her head before shoving the training sticks at him. “Sorry, you’re on your own. Put those away, I’m gonna take a cool down lap. Good luck. Word of advice, don’t try getting them drunk, Wash gets handsy and giggly.”

Well, okay, now he has to see drunk Wash at some point. When he’s not taking pain meds anymore at least. 

Carolina claps him on the shoulder and takes off, leaving him to it. Tucker risks a glance up the hill. Donut and Caboose seem to have gotten Locus and Wash’s attention back on the tea party, but he’s sure there’s eyes on him when he puts away the training gear that follow him all the way back to base. 

And that shiver that goes down his spine would be so, so awesome if it didn’t make him feel like shit.

* * *

After a shower, Tucker feels a little more like a person and he has an idea. 

Well, like half an idea. And it’s probably not going to actually fix anything, but it makes him feel a little less like a complete dick, which is a step in the right direction. 

His room isn’t messy, it’s just lived in. Tucker can’t fucking focus in a perfectly clean room. It doesn’t feel right. So his stuff just overflows a little, spilling out of his dresser drawers and the box he uses for a nightstand. It might not be super organized, but it works for him. Well, it does until he has to find shit. 

Tucker only realizes how much junk he’s picked up over the years when he’s trying to find one thing in particular. It takes about a half hour of searching, but he finally finds what he’s looking for, balled up in an old t-shirt that smells like the desert and still has bits of sand clinging to it that have never been on a beach. 

Carefully cupping it in both hands, Tucker shuts off the light in his room and turns on the nightlight. Little pinpricks of light dart and dance over the walls, slowly spinning, a little galaxy in his room. Perfect. 

He holds it tight to his chest as he heads out of his room and down the hall to knock at Locus’ door. Tucker’s standing there for about half a minute before he starts thinking that he has no idea if Locus is actually in there right now. Or if he’ll even want the thing. He’s got his own, although it’s clearly not working for him. Maybe he’ll think it’s stupid or--

The door opens with a creek and Locus blinks down at him. His brows are already high in surprise and they tick up a tiny bit more as he looks Tucker up and down. “Did you want something, Lavernius?”

“Yeah, sorta. I wanted to give you something.” It suddenly seems like such a dumb idea, but he shoves the nightlight at Locus before he can talk himself out of it. 

Locus is still going for surprised when he takes the nightlight, hands extremely careful. His brows knit together when he gets a good look at it, slowly turning it in his hands. “This is… is this the one you told me about? Your son’s?”

“Yup, that’s the thing. I figured you might want it. Cause… you look fucking exhausted, dude, so your nightlight’s not doing what it’s supposed to, so I thought… maybe this one would be better? The ones without the shape panels were always too bright for Junior, so I was thinking maybe that’s why it’s not working for you,” he says, shrugging, watching Locus carefully. 

He’s not saying anything. He’s barely moving. Mostly Locus is just… staring at the nightlight like he’s never seen one before. Which is fucking weird since he’s got one literally just like it back in his room. Locus looks up at him very slowly, and he’s got a look on his face kinda like the one Wash gave him the other day, that weird happy-sad-is this real look. 

“You want me to have this?”

Tucker cocks his head to one side. “Uh yeah, dude, that’s why I just gave it to you.”

“But… this is your son’s,” Locus says for some reason, like that’s a reason that makes sense. 

“It used to be, but he’s not exactly running around here asking for it. I don’t think he’s gonna give a shit if you have his old nightlight.” Seriously, why would that matter? Even if Junior still used a nightlight, he’s off doing his own thing and Tucker got him like twenty of the fucking things, so he’s probably still got a few of those lying around if he hasn’t gotten any new ones for himself. 

Locus still looks conflicted for some reason. He bites at his lip as he glances back into his room. “I don’t have anything for you--”

“What? Dude, no.” Tucker makes a face and holds up his hands. “You don’t have to pay me for it, or like trade me or some shit. If you wanna pay me back, just use it to get some fucking sleep for once, and that’ll be good.”

Now Locus just looks fucking startled. But after a second, he nods. Both of his hands go around the nightlight, cupping it carefully and lifting it to his chest, like it’s made out of glass instead of industrial strength alien tech. “I should still give you something,” he insists, looking determined about it this time.

Tucker rolls his eyes so hard he almost sees his brain. “Locus, seriously, it’s fine--”

“Sam.”

“What?” Did Locus just have a stroke and forget his name or something? He still looks normal, although there’s something a bit awkward about his face, like he’s not quite sure what he’s doing. 

“My name. I… I want you to know it. That’s what I’m giving you in return.”

This is the weirdest conversation Tucker has had in years, and that’s including all the talks he’s had with Caboose trying to explain where babies come from. Slowly he nods, because as weird as it is, that feels important. 

“Alright. Sam,” he says, trying out the name. It definitely sounds a lot more human than Locus. For some reason he can’t not smile a little when he says it. “Cool.”

And Locus--Sam--Locus looks softer than he has any right to when he smiles back, still holding the nightlight to his chest. It’s not like the beach, but the air between them has a sudden heaviness to it that Tucker doesn’t really know the right words for. There’s a prickling feeling at his stomach and he has to be anywhere else. 

“Uh, well… I gotta go. I’ve got a thing with Grif. But uh… let me know if that helps, yeah?” he says, already walking backwards down the hall. 

If Locus is bothered by his sudden and very fake excuse, he doesn’t show it. So he’s probably not upset, the guy’s fucking obvious about everything. He nods and takes a step backward into his room. “I will. Thank you, Lavernius.”

“You got it, Sam.” And he gives a little salute and leaves to find Grif, because he so doesn’t want Locus coming to find him later and realizing he just made that up to get away from him and his weird soft face. 

* * *

“You sure about this, man? These rocks look… kinda shitty,” Tucker says, probably the third time in as many minutes as he looks up toward the roof of the cave. 

After finding Grif, Tucker had been pretty surprised when he’d actually agreed to hang out with him for the next several hours. He hadn’t even had to explain the Locus thing. Which is probably good, cause he’s not sure how he would’ve done that without sounding like a complete idiot. 

Tucker’s not totally sure he knows what the fuck went down there himself. 

So now they’re in a cave and it sucks. Tucker knows about the caves the same way he knows about how spaceships work. He gets that they do, they exist and it’s a good thing they do, but he doesn’t want to look too closely at them or else he’s pretty sure something will get fucked up and he definitely never wants to end up inside one. 

And inside the cave, he’s pretty sure he would rather end up inside a spaceship engine. He doesn’t know why Grif likes this place, but the questions he asks about that just get long reassurances that there’s no bats in the cave. Which makes him very sure that there are definitely bats and they’re going to try to eat his face. 

“Dude, it’s fine,” Grif says, for the tenth time, looking back at him like he’s regretting agreeing to this. 

“If you say so.” 

The cave is dank and dark, Grif guiding them along using the lights from his helmet, which he’s got tucked under his arm. It makes all the shadows longer and look like there’s a couple million bugs hiding in them with how they shift and move with the light. Tucker trudges along after him, kind of wishing he’d thought to wear his armor. At least he’s got his sword in the pocket of his sweats. He never goes anywhere without it anymore.

They’ve been walking for a while, winding around this way and that, down a bunch of paths that all look exactly the same to Tucker when they round a corner and Grif comes to a stop without warning and Tucker smacks into his back. Smacking into Grif isn’t really painful though, not like running into Caboose or Simmons and his pointy elbows. There’s also the bonus that he can see over Grif’s head easy. At least one of these assholes isn’t a fucking giant. 

“Here we go,” Grif says, apparently not minding.

Alright, now he gets why Grif likes it in here. The ground here is more dirt than rock, rising up a little from the cave they’re standing on now. It seems a bit warmer here, a little less moist and gross. Grif’s clearly been down here a whole lot, cause he’s made a fucking fort. Tucker suddenly knows where half their chairs and couch cushions went. 

Grif heads over, lifting up a blanket flap door to sink onto a pile of cushions and blankets. He looks back at Tucker, eyebrow rising. “You coming or what?”

“Yeah, yeah, scoot the fuck over.” And Tucker drops in next to him. It’s… actually really fucking comfortable. There’s pillows all over that he never knew they had, and the blankets are soft and somehow not covered in gross shit from being down in a cave for who knows how long. Settling back, it’s not hard to find a place that feels like he could curl up and pass out in. “When the fuck did you make this?”

Grif shrugs, digging around looking for something. “Little while after we got here. Simmons was trying to raid my snack drawer again, so I needed a better place to hide my shit and I found this spot and figured it’d be a good place to hide when Wash started trying to make me run laps.”

Tucker nods a little, glancing around them. It is a pretty fucking sweet spot. He’s not sure he could find his way in without Grif leading the way. The light from the helmet that Grif props up on a chair makes a soft warm glow stretch over them like a tiny campfire. 

A candy bar drops onto his lap and Tucker just stares at it for a second before looking over at Grif, who looks right at home sprawled on another pile of blankets and pillows. “So, you gonna tell me what the fuck this is actually about, dude?”

And there it is. Tucker winces as he picks at the candy bar wrapper. He could pretend he has no idea what Grif’s talking about, but… things have been a little weird with Grif for a while. They’re better than they were, but it’s not like the two of them have really had a heart to heart since Grif’s pep talk. “It’s kinda stupid.”

“It’s cool, man, what happens in the cave, stays in the cave.” That’s more reassuring than it probably should be. 

Tucker blows out a breath and sinks back into the cushions. Grif’s made a roof out of a bunch of different blankets that kinda make his eyes hurt if he stares at them too long. “There’s sort of… I guess a thing going on. I don’t really know what to call it.”

“You mean the thing with you and Wash or the thing with you and Locus?” Grif just shrugs when Tucker looks over at him sharply. “Dude, none of you are as subtle as you think you are.”

And Tucker suddenly feels even more like the biggest dump the universe ever took. He groans and throws an arm over his eyes. “Just fucking great, Grif, really know what to say to make a guy feel better.”

“I’m just saying, man. But hey, it’s not like any of us give a shit who you’re banging, that’s something, right?”

“I guess.” And it is kind of nice. Not as nice as it would’ve been several years ago when he was stupid about a lot of things and first trying to figure out if it was okay to hang out at his rock for a while thinking about pink armor.

He blows out a breath and picks at the corner of the wrapper until he manages to get it open. “I dunno, dude, it’s like… like they both need someone, y’know? And they look at me like I’m that someone and… is it fucked up if I like that? Like a lot?”

“So it’s not just a sex thing? Holy shit, who are you and what have you done with Tucker?”

Tucker throws the wrapper at him, but he can’t stop a little laugh from coming with it. “Fuck you, man.”

Grif laughs and lightly nudges him with his foot. “Nah, it’s not fucked up. That’s probably what, y’know, actual relationships are supposed to be like, needing and wanting to be needed or whatever mushy crap Donut’s always talking about.”

“Gross,” Tucker says, wrinkling up his nose.

“Right? I’m glad Simmons is just into me for my body,” Grif says, patting his gut with a hint of pride.

Snickering, Tucker rolls onto his side and props his head up on an arm so he can look at Grif without tilting his head at an angle that makes his neck ache. “So y’all finally got your shit figured out?”

“Yeah, guess we did.” And Grif looks at the wrapper in his hands with this tiny little smile that feels like a secret thing Tucker shouldn’t really be looking at. 

“It’s about fucking time, dude.” Tucker reaches over and punches his shoulder. Soft punches, affectionate punching. “I so called it. If Church was here, he’d so owe me twenty bucks.”

Grif nods slowly, little smile fading as he looks over at Tucker. “Yeah… you doing okay with that, by the way? The whole… Church being gone.”

Oh god. He wants to talk about that even less than the stuff with Locus and Wash. Tucker rolls onto his back again and stares at the blanket roof. “Yeah, man. I’m good. He’s been gone for ages, I’m fine. I mean, yeah it sucks that he died and whatever, but I’m not gonna fucking cry about it.”

“You know it’s cool if you do, right?”

Tucker cocks an eyebrow at him. “Do what?”

Grif shrugs, like it should be obvious. “Cry. Or scream and punch shit. Or y’know, just actually fucking deal with him not being here anymore. Cause it fucking sucks, dude. Like… I dunno what the fuck I’d do if that was Simmons.”

“Yeah well, it’s not. And that’s not the same, man. I didn’t love Church.” And that’s the biggest lie Tucker’s ever told, but he doesn’t take it back. Because it’s still not the same, Grif losing Simmons would be different. They’re supposed to be together, they complete each other. One without the other just doesn’t make any goddamn sense. 

Tucker’s never had that with anyone, and he sure as hell didn’t have it with Church. That doesn’t make the hole he left behind any easier to ignore, but Tucker’s been doing his best for a while now and he’s not about to stop. 

“But seriously, Grif, I’m good with the Church shit. Don’t wanna deal with that anymore, y’know?”

“Yeah, I get’cha.” And Grif is honestly an awesome friend, because he doesn’t push it. There’s faint shifting sounds next to him as Grif stretches out on the cushions to get comfy. “So… the stuff with you and Wash and Locus, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Two dudes at once. That’s kinda fucked up, man.”

Tucker groans and grabs a pillow to smother himself with. “Tell me something I don’t fucking know. It just kinda happened, y’know? I dunno what the hell I’m doing.”

“Well, is there one of them you’re more into? Cause you should probably just cut the other dude loose before shit gets weird. Or, y’know, one of them kills you. Cause they could do that”

Tucker throws the pillow at Grif. “Not fucking helpful. I already know that.”

Grif just laughs and pulls the pillow under him. But then his face is thoughtful when Tucker looks up at him. “What?”

“Well… there was this stuff Donut was going on about, some kinda free love bullshit, or whatever it is he’s into,” Grif says, waving a hand dismissively. “I dunno, he’s the one you should be asking.”

“Right, cause I’m in a real big hurry to talk to Donut,” Tucker says, snorting. He shifts around a little. It’s too easy to get comfy and the coffee he had that morning isn’t doing much for him anymore. 

“Just saying that if you wanna think about that shit, he’s probably the guy to go to. And he’s watched so many sappy romance movies he’s like an expert on this shit.”

Tucker’s eyes are shut, but he still cocks an eyebrow. “Pretty sure just watching stuff doesn’t make him an expert. I’ve watched like every James Bond movie and I’m not awesome at spy shit.”

“Shut up. That’s different.”

When Tucker tries to laugh at him, it comes out as more of a yawn. He shouldn’t fall asleep here. It’s the middle of the fucking day and he’s supposed to help Caboose make dinner later. But his eyes don’t want to open again and his head feels so heavy. 

“Mm, don’t let me fall asleep here,” he says, already feeling like he’s halfway there. “I got shit to do.”

“Yeah, yeah.” But Grif’s yawning too and Tucker’s arms weigh a million pounds so he can’t reach over there and shove him.

Just a few minutes won’t hurt. An hour tops, then he’ll get up and get his shit together. Yeah… yeah that’ll be fine…

* * *

He’s in another cave, but it’s the wrong one. Wait. Wait no, it’s not a cave. It’s a temple. 

Tucker pushes himself up, running his fingers over weathered stone, worn smooth by sand. Right, the temple. He has to protect it. Can’t leave or everyone’s fucked. His job. His responsibility. 

It would be so much easier of those assholes would just stop pounding on it outside. They already killed everyone else there, if that didn’t get him to leave, he can’t figure out why they think blasting the place over and over will. 

So it’s just him. Just Tucker. Alone alone alone. 

His thoughts echo off the walls because if he keeps them in his head they go around and around and never stop. Sand is everywhere in his boots, makes them heavier, weighs him down. He should fix that soon. If he’s too slow, he’s dead. 

If he goes outside to see the sun for too long, he’s dead. He he sneaks out to try to fix the radio again, he’s dead. 

Dead dead dead. 

At least Junior’s safe. Tucker couldn’t let him stay. His nightlight’s still there. The stars on the walls are almost as good as being outside, it makes things feel bigger. But the power won’t last forever. Gotta save it. Can’t keep leaving it on just to look at stars that aren’t real. Not even so he can wish on every one of them for someone. Anyone. Someone please just show the fuck up. 

The bounding outside isn’t even a steady rhythm. It’s random and it sucks, jolting him out of thoughts, putting everything off balance. Makes it hard to keep track of things. Of how long he’s been there. How much time has gone by. 

It feels like a lot. A lot a lot. Too much. 

And no one’s coming. 

This is where he’s going to die. Maybe he should just get it over with. There’s plenty of shadows in here that look like people. Maybe one of them will come to life and stab him. 

Something hurts and he looks down. There’s blood on his hands when he presses them to his stomach. And that’s wrong. That shouldn’t be now. That’s before and after.

But there’s so much blood. And it doesn’t stop. Tucker sinks to his knees. 

This is how he dies. 

Alone. Alone. Alone. 

* * *

Tucker jerks awake, breathing hard, sand rolling in on all sides, making it impossible to get up. The pounding’s stopped, they must’ve gotten in. They’re in the temple, he has to stop them. He’s fucked it all up--

But no. No that’s not fucking sand. It’s softer and solid. Grif’s stupid blanket fort. 

Blinking, he looks around, trying to shake off the last traces of the dream that cling to his brain. It’s darker now, colder. Fuck, how long has he been down here?

“Grif? Shit, what time is it? Grif, dude--” But Grif’s not there. 

Looking over, Tucker finds the spot Grif had been in empty, the blankets cool when he touches them. Grif hasn’t been there for a while. And he took his helmet with him. Fuck that’s why it’s so dark. Asshole just left him here. Tucker’s gonna kick his ass when he gets out of here. 

He pushes himself up on dream unsteady legs and looks around. Shit. If he gets out of here. 

Slowly, he spins on the spot, trying to remember where they came in. Goddamn it, why wasn’t he paying more attention on the way in? Alright just… just think and breathe. 

Tucker pats at himself, finding his sword, which makes breathing a little easier. At least he still has that. He could use it for a light, but… if he does, he might not find the actual light to lead him out of this fucking place. At least it’s not completely dark. There’s some of those weird glowing mushrooms here and there along the walls of the cave. 

Well, he’s not going anywhere if he just fucking sits there. So he takes a breath and, after a bit of thought, pick a path that he thinks look right. 

It takes about twenty seconds for him to be pretty sure it’s not the right one. Damn it. How many fucking paths are there in here? He squints in the low light, trying to make out anything that looks familiar. It’s all just rocks and shit. Tucker takes a right turn. Then another. Then another. 

No sign of daylight, just more cave. More dark, drippy cave. Maybe Grif’s just fucking with him. 

“Real funny, dude,” he calls, flinching a little when his voice echoes back at him. “Just leave Tucker in the fucking cave, super hilarious. Okay, I get it, I’m a dick. Can you show me the fucking way out now? Grif?”

Nothing. Just his own voice calling Grif’s name again and again, growing fainter and fainter. Fuck. Okay, okay maybe he’s gone. But he’s gotta come back, right?

Unless something happened. 

Shit, what if there’s something else in here? There’s no way Grif explored all of these fucking twists and turns on his own. There could be like giant cave worms, or space pirates, or a dozen other things. And he just fucking slept through them taking Grif. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. 

Tucker’s heart beats in his ears as he tries to move faster, feet catching and slipping over wet rock. He eats shit as he rounds a corner too fast, tearing his sweats, leaving his knees stinging, elbows aching where he catches himself. But he can’t stop. He has to find Grif. Or get out and get help. Get Wash, he’ll know what to do. 

There’s gotta be a way out, he just has to look harder, do better. 

He gets to a slightly bigger chamber with a half dozen paths branching off it, tiny mushrooms dotting the walls. Turning in a slow circle, Tucker tries to pick a path. Maybe he’s turning faster than he thinks, dizziness making him stagger a little. 

Fuck, wait, which path did he take to get in here? Oh goddamn it, why didn’t he mark that? Shit okay… okay, just think. 

“Grif?” he calls again, only getting an echo. 

He can’t get out. The huge walls suddenly aren’t big enough, they’re closing in. He’s trapped. 

Breath coming in uneven bursts, he staggers back until the rocky wall scratches at him through his shirt. He can’t get out can’t get out can’t get out. Can’t do anything. 

Damn it, if he could just focus. 

Tucker sinks down, pulling his knees to his chest, burying his hands in his hair. If he could just catch his fucking breath maybe he could think this shit through. But he can’t. He can’t he can’t he can’t. He’s trapped and he can’t breath and he can’t think and his stupid hands won’t stop shaking and his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest. 

God, his chest hurts. Is this a heart attack? Is this what a fucking heart attack feels like? Of course he’d get his ass lost in a fucking shitty cave and then have a heart attack. Wash’s right, he should eat more vegetables. 

What a weird thing to think. Tucker lets out a laugh that’s breathless and barely sounds like his. He tips his head back against the wall and sucks in gasping gulps of air, but it doesn’t help. His chest still hurts, the cave is still closing in on him. 

Is this what dying feels like?

He never thought he would be this scared of dying. But no, it’s not the dying that’s scary. It’s being alone. 

Because no one’s coming for him. And this is how he dies. 

Alone alone alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise Tucker's not actually dead! Thank you so much for the kudos and comments! I'm determined to keep this fic five chapters long, but uh... those chapters wanna get really long, oops.


	3. Chapter 3

“Tucker?” The walls call his name and he still can’t fucking breathe. Can’t get enough air down to find his voice and answer. If he could just fucking think straight, but his heart is so damn loud in his ears and he can’t tell if that voice is actually there or he just wants it to be.

Just wants someone to be there. Anyone. Please.

“Tucker where are you?” The cave sounds like Wash.

“Tucker! Tucker, stop playing hide and seek! It isn’t fun anymore!” No, wait, it sounds like Caboose.

“Tucker, dude, where the fuck did you go?”

“Lavernius, can you hear us?”

“C’mon, Tucker, if you’re still in here say something!”

He can’t. Trying to suck down air, he can’t get enough of a breath to make words. “Here,” he gasps out, but it’s barely audible. “I’m here.”

They keep calling, all of them. Fuck, they can’t hear him. They’re not going to find him. They’re going to leave. Fuck fuck fuck. There’s got to be something. Think, just think.

Tucker pats at himself frantically, like he can do anything not frantically right now, still wheezing as he tries to find something he could use. Maybe there’s a rock to throw, or he could take off his stupid hoodie and wave it around, or throw his sword--

His sword. Fucking duh.

Tucker pulls it out of his pocket with clumsy fingers, holding it with both hands when one starts shaking, threatening to drop it and fuck him over completely. Come on, come on, he’s done this a million times.

It takes three tries, but he flicks his wrists just right and the sword surges to life. Holding it out in front of him, he sinks back against the wall again, pressing his face to his knees as he tries to force down air. If they can just see the light…

There’s a gasp somewhere. Caboose. “Did you see that?”

“See what?”

“Grif, turn off the light, I can’t see Tucker’s light if you have yours on.”

“What the fuck are you talking about--dude, get the fuck off me!”

It sounds like they’re fighting, but Tucker can’t tell who wins. God, why are they fighting? He needs to get up, needs to see what’s happening. But he can’t fucking move. All he can do is sit and shake and shake and shake.

God, why is he so pathetic? It’s just a fucking cave. He should be better than this. Stronger than this. Wash wouldn’t lose his shit if he got lost in a dumbass cave.

Footsteps get louder. There’s so many. Fuck, how many of them came looking for him? Shit, they didn’t have to do that. Yeah, okay, maybe he doesn’t want to be alone, but they don’t all have to rush in to save his stupid ass.

“Tucker! Found you! This was a good game, you are very… Tucker?” Caboose’s voice gets weird and quiet at the end and Tucker doesn’t look up because he doesn’t want to know what face he’s making. Damn it, even Caboose probably thinks he’s an idiot now.

If he could just fucking breathe and get his hands to stop shaking. How is he not dead already? Worst heart attack ever.

“Caboose is he… Oh. Shit.” Great, Grif’s there too. Probably going to laugh at him for wandering off and getting all fucked up.

But he doesn’t laugh. No one does.

He almost wishes they would. Just laugh at him. Call him stupid and move the fuck on. Ha ha stupid Tucker got lost in a cave, now let’s just go home and never talk about this shit again.

If he can just catch his breath. Just tell them he’s fine even though his chest fucking begs to differ.

“Tucker? Can you hear me? What’s wrong?” Oh god. Wash can’t see him like this. He doesn’t need one more fucking thing to worry about. He sounds close and Tucker recoils. Fuck, his hands won’t stop shaking.

Just get it together. Get it the fuck together. What the hell is wrong with him? Why can’t he stop? He just wants it to stop.

“Panic attack,” says Locus’ low rumble, somewhere beyond Wash.

God, they’re all just fucking watching him lose it. Never mind that whole not wanting to be alone thing. They can just head out and leave him to die, that would be fucking awesome right now.

“Tucker, it’s alright, nothing’s going to hurt you, we just want to help, you can put down the sword and--” Something cuts Wash off.

Then shockingly soft footsteps get close and someone sinks down next to him. Tucker can’t stop the full body flinch as a large hand lands on his shoulder. “It is okay, Tucker. You do not have to be brave anymore. I will be brave for you.”

“Caboose.” Tucker barely manages to gasp out the name between hiccuping breaths. “I-I can’t--”

He’s not sure what he can’t do. A lot of fucking things right now. But apparently he doesn’t have to fill in the blank. Caboose moves slow, one arm slipping between Tucker and the wall, looping loosely around him. “You are in a scary cave, but it is okay, because I will protect you from the bad things.”

Caboose carefully shifts him around, more gentle than Tucker’s ever seen him with anything else. His back presses to Caboose’s chest and one of those big, careful hands presses to his heaving chest. “Breathe like me, okay? But you have to count for me.”

“Caboose--”

“You are very good at counting, Tucker. I know you can do it.”

It’s stupid, but Tucker shuts his eyes tight and starts counting, trying to match his breaths with the even rise and fall of Caboose’s chest behind him. He gets to ten and Caboose has him start over. By the time he gets there two mores times, he’s almost got his breathing under control, little hitches and gasps fewer and farther between.

Caboose’s chin settles on top of his head, his arms are loose, but it doesn’t feel like a trap. Tucker could definitely get out if he wanted to. But fuck, he doesn’t want to. He clicks the sword off and sets it down, pressing one hand over the one Caboose still has on his chest. His eyes stay shut. The others are probably still there, still watching, fuck, they’ve gotta think--

“Do you need to count again?” Caboose’s voice cuts into his thoughts. Shit, Tucker feels the places where he suddenly tensed up. He takes a few more breaths and counts to five in his head and feels a little better.

“Nah. I think I’m okay. Thanks Caboose.” The last part is quieter than he plans. But it’s not really for anyone else to hear, so fuck it. His voice is still shakier than he wants it to be, but at least it doesn’t feel like he’s dying anymore.

Rocks crunch under someone’s feet and Tucker hesitantly opens one eye, brow furrowing a little when Grif crouches in front of him. Grif looks like shit. His hair’s all over the place and it looks like he scraped himself up a little. But he still gives Tucker a sight smile. “Hey, you good, dude?”

Tucker actually takes a second to think about it before he nods. “Yeah, I’m alright. Kinda… got lost as shit in here.”

Grif winces and rubs at his chin, the spot where his face turns into Simmons’. “That was my bad, man. I was gonna come back. I woke up and… dude, you were fucking exhausted when we got in here so I figured I should just let you sleep for a while. Then I got all distracted doing shit with Locus and--”

“It’s fine. Seriously, Grif, it’s cool. I was just freaked when you were gone cause I thought cave worms or some shit ate you while I was asleep.” And that part comes out lighter, cause Tucker’s forcing it to. Grif still doesn’t look sure, so he takes a breath. “I know you wouldn’t just leave me, dude. You always come back.”

For a second, Grif just fucking stares at him. Tucker slowly holds up a hand, which is mostly not shaking now, thank god. Grif stares at his hand next, like he doesn’t know what to do with it. But then he does this big full body sigh of relief and takes it, the clapping sound echoing around the cave. He holds on real tight and doesn’t let go until he and Caboose get Tucker back on his feet.

The ground still seems like it would kind of rather have Tucker back on his ass, but Caboose’s arm stays around his shoulders and Grif’s hand goes to his back to keep him from tripping over his own feet. His chest doesn’t hurt anymore, but his stomach hasn’t gotten the memo that everything is fine and he needs to stop acting like a big fucking baby.

Tucker takes a long breath, leaning against Caboose a little more than he means to as Grif stoops to grab his sword and then hands it over. “Thanks man.”

As if he needed another fucking reason to never let the thing out of his sight. Tucker’s never really gotten over the dumb luck that he ended up with it. Yeah, sure, he’s a badass and all now, but when he found it, he’s pretty sure he would’ve been the sword’s last choice if it got a vote.

Tucking it back in his pocket, the awful spinning feeling in his stomach slows down a little. Better, that’s better.

And then he looks over and remembers Wash and Locus are still fucking there and it’s all worse again. Tucker doesn’t know which face is harder to look at. Wash is clearly doing his best to look casual, like Tucker didn’t just embarrass the fuck out of himself, but his eyes give him away, all pinched around the corners. Locus is still showing that no one ever taught him how to keep a straight face, brows knit together, hands clenched at his sides, perpetual frown just about doubled in size.

They’ve both gotta think he’s pretty fucking sad right about now. Maybe they can laugh at him later and bond over it. Nah, that’s not fair, they wouldn’t laugh, but Tucker almost wishes they would. Laughter is better than pity.

He can handle being the butt of a joke. That’s been most of his life. Whatever this is, whatever’s going to come with it, he’s sure now he doesn’t want any of it.

So he squares his shoulders and slaps a smile on his face and walks out of the cave on his own.

Or that’s the plan. He doesn’t go anywhere without Caboose’s arm around him and Grif has apparently decided to stick to him like glue for the time being. Which, okay, is probably a good thing, cause yeah… he still has no fucking clue how to get out of this place.

They’re sort of an awkward six legged monster when they regroup with Locus and Wash, who are still just hanging out a little back from the big chamber. Wash approaches, head ducked a little, as if that’ll stop anyone from hearing him. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m good, man. Just having one of those days, y’know?” Tucker doesn’t even know what he means, but maybe if he leaves it nice and vague, Wash will make up some deeper meaning on his own and just go with it. He does that a lot.

Wash’s brow furrows and for a second he looks almost pissed. Shit, how could he forget that when Wash fills in blanks on his own, he has to go for like the worst possible option? But then he just nods. “Right. Well, let’s get back to base.”

The smile he gives is very forced, but he pats Tucker’s shoulder and doesn’t press it any further before he starts walking back through the cave. That sure as hell doesn’t feel like it’s over, but Tucker is all for not talking about it until they get out of here and back into the fucking world.

Alright, one drama bomb sort of defused, now for the other one.

But Locus doesn’t say anything. He just _looks_ at him. Not just a regular look, it’s a fucking _look,_  the kind that burns and means some kind of storm is coming no matter what the weather channel says, and Tucker has no clue what to do with that. But that’s all he gets before Locus glares at the ground, hands curling into fists and then he just trudges after Wash.

Well, at least they aren’t treating him like he’s broken or something. They’re just being fucking weird. Tucker can’t tell if that’s better, but his brain just wants today to stop happening. So he leans a little more against Caboose, who’s arm loops easily around him, and lets him handle getting them out of the cave.

* * *

The weirdness doesn’t go away.

As far as Tucker’s concerned, the thing in the cave didn’t happen. It doesn’t matter. He woke up from a bad dream and got a little freaked out, no big deal. Not like he’s gonna be stupid enough to go back in there and get lost again. So everything can just go back to normal.

Except that it doesn’t, because fuck him, apparently.

It’s not quite dark out when they get out of the cave, but that’s a near thing. Shit, how long was he asleep in there? Tucker actually… feels pretty good sleepwise for once. Maybe that’ll last him a couple days. Because after that nightmare, he’s not in a big hurry to pass out again.

Caboose and Grif stay close. It’s a little easier to breathe back in the base when everyone piles in for food. They make dinner in shifts. Well some of them do anyway. Sarge is forbidden from going near the cooking tools after the ‘you have to put pasta in water?’ incident that almost burned down the base way before Donut got a chance. Carolina also has a ban mostly because she picked up a habit of eating things too spicy for any normal human to handle and just rolls her eyes when they all start dying after trying her signature chili.

Tucker actually kind of likes cooking. It’s something to do with his hands and, between him and Caboose, they usually manage to muddle through a recipe without burning anything too bad. Grif hangs out in the kitchen as they move around, stirring this, and trying to get at least two of the little portable burners working at once. He’s there to steal food, not talk about feelings, so Tucker lets him stay.

What’s less great is the way Locus keeps wandering through the room every five minutes, usually without a word. The fourth time he does it, Tucker sighs and reaches over the cardboard table that marks the line between kitchen and TV room and just yanks him in. “If you’re gonna keep coming in here, at least fucking stir something.”

Locus blinks at him, eyebrows so high it’s kind of funny, but he doesn’t reject the bowl Tucker shoves his way. He follows instructions and even though it looks like he really wants to say something, he doesn’t, so Tucker doesn’t shoo him away either.

Once everything is more or less done and only a little on the burnt side, Caboose calls everyone in to eat at the table, because at some point they all got disgustingly domestic. Tucker plops down in his usual seat next to Caboose and then something weird happens because two hands pull the chair out next to him at the same time. No one ever sits there. That’s the shitty seat with uneven legs that Tucker sits next to specifically so he can put his feet there. But now Locus and Wash are both gripping at it and staring each other down with a kind of intensity that makes the whole room go quiet.

Goddamn it.

“Agent Washington,” Locus says, voice lower than ever. The fact that he’s there at all is fucking baffling. Locus has eaten with them all twice, both times only when Grif managed to lure him out of his room and the two of them sat together on one of the counters. Well, Grif sat, Locus leaned against the wall menacingly, as he does.

“Locus,” Wash says, coolly. From his angle, he can’t really see much of either of their faces, but Tucker’s pretty damn sure there’s nothing good on either one right now. If he could just dissolve right now and not have whatever the fuck is happening next to him happen, that would be great. Why does today just keep doing this shit?

“Well, hey, thanks for saving me a seat, guys!” Donut is a bleach blond guardian angel as he drops into the seat next to Tucker. It’s like he doesn’t even see the daggers Wash and Locus are glaring at each other. No, not daggers. Not big enough.

They’re glaring fucking machetes at each other. But Donut doesn’t give a crap, bright and shiny as ever. He smiles at Tucker all innocent. “Hey Tuck, you mind passing the salt? Cause I can’t wait to have your delicious creation inside me!”

That’s probably not worse than Wash and Locus killing each other at the table, so Tucker just sighs and passes the salt.

* * *

The longest day Tucker’s had in a while just doesn’t want to end. After dinner, which was still super awkward with Wash and Locus sitting next to each other across the table from him, he quickly retreated back to his room, claiming that he really needed to get some sleep.

But for the first time in months, he’s not tired. He’s so far from tired, he can’t sit still. There’s all this energy and nowhere to put it.

He kind of misses Chorus. Back there people were always knocking on his door asking for shit. At the time, it had been annoying as fuck getting pulled twenty different ways at once. Here, the nothing just makes it too easy for him to fall into the big black hole of shit he doesn’t want to think about. There’s gotta be something to do.

Tucker tries to clean his room for about five seconds before deciding that’s stupid. Sinking onto his mattress, he pulls his datapad from the nightstand box. There’s a couple books on there Simmons has been trying to get him to read. Apparently just watching the movies isn’t acceptable for a lot of things, so now he’s got homework. But the letters swim and mush together even worse than usual and he can’t focus for shit.

So he starts typing up an update for Grey like he said he would. For a second, he almost wants to ask her about the cave thing, but nah, she’s probably got other patients to deal with. Maybe if it happens again he could ask, but it’s probably just a one time thing.

The datapad doesn’t have a lot else to keep him busy. He should really put more games on it or something. So he puts it down and digs through the box until he finds a couple bouncy balls. Lying back on the mattress, he starts throwing one at the ceiling again and again. It’s mind numbing, which is just what he needs right now.

It’s not quite enough to drown out everything though. In his head, he keeps going back to the cave. What the hell was it about that place that made him freak out? It’s not like he’s never been in a cave before. But maybe it’s not about the where. That would make it a lot easier. Just never go back there again, problem fucking solved.

Tucker’s pretty sure that’s not it though. So maybe the dream then. But he’s had those before, that one specifically. He just has the same couple dreams that like to play on repeat. Dying alone in the temple isn’t so bad. Felix is the worst probably, when he stabs him and doesn’t stop, or when he climbs back up the temple and isn’t dead and everything falls apart. Although with those, at least it fucking makes sense when he wakes up and has trouble breathing for a second. The temple is fucking boring next to that bullshit.

None of it makes sense and the bounce, bounce, bounce of the ball against the metal ceiling doesn’t give him a whole lot of answers. Really, he should talk to Wash about it. But he can’t. Wash might know what it’s like to have nightmares and lose his shit, but he has like… actual problems. He’s been through some serious shit. If Tucker goes to him whining about scary temple dreams, he’s gonna sound like an idiot and an asshole.

Someone knocks on his door and the ball bounces off his forehead. “Fuck.”

Tucker rubs at his forehead and sits up as the ball rolls away. “Yeah? Door’s open.”

He’s not sure who he expects, but Locus slowly peeking in definitely doesn’t crack his top five guesses. When Tucker cocks an expectant eyebrow at him, Locus steps all the way in, nudging the door shut behind him. And then he just… stands there.

Sometimes Tucker thinks that Locus forgets he isn’t in his armor 24/7 anymore and he can’t just turn invisible to get out of conversations. He’s pretty sure that’s happening right now. Tucker gives him a second. Still nothing. Just quiet staring.

“Uh. Did you want something, dude?” Cause he’s pretty sure that Locus is serious about the ‘no murders’ thing now, but the intense staring is still a little creepy.

“I…” Locus starts and stops like a sputtering car engine. His mouth opens and shuts a few more times, hands flexing at his sides before he blows out a breath, ducking his head. “I’m sorry.”

Well, Tucker has no clue what to do with that. He’s sorry? Why? For the weirdness at dinner? Yeah, that was awkward, sure, but he’s pretty sure that doesn’t need a big dramatic apology. Although, with Locus everything is big and dramatic.

“Ooookay. Why?”

Locus’ jaw clenches, his hands curled in tight fists. “Earlier, in the cave.” His voice is halting and stiff and Tucker already wants him to stop. “I should have… done something. I know the procedure for handling panic attacks, but when we found you, I froze. After everything--”

“Sam, stop.” Yeah, okay, Tucker’s not doing this. Locus’ weird guilt face makes his insides twist up and he just wants to talk about anything else.

Using his actual name gets Locus to snap his mouth shut so hard he might’ve chipped a tooth, looking up with wide eyes. Huh. Apparently the name thing is kind of a big deal. Good to know.

“C’mere,” Tucker says, patting the mattress next to him. “Looking up at you makes my neck hurt.” Which is sort of true, but this also isn’t the kind of talk he wants to have staring up at Locus. Well, it’s not really the kind of talk he wants to have at all.

Locus hesitates, like he’s expecting a trap, but then he moves, crossing the room to slowly sink down onto the bed. Like with the rock days before, he leaves a bit of space between them. Tucker watches him from the corner of his eye and sighs. “You don’t have to say you’re sorry about that, okay? It’s not like it’s your job to make sure I don’t do something stupid like that.”

“It wasn’t stupid,” Locus says, sounding a little surprised. “Lavernius, you… do you understand what happened?”

Tucker scoffs. “Uh, yeah, I was there, dude. I got lost in a cave and freaked out, no big deal. Just not gonna do that again, easy.”

The frown on Locus’ face is bigger than usual. He shifts a little, turning to face Tucker with his whole body. Uh oh, that’s the weird ‘open and emotional body language’ bullshit Donut’s always going on about. “I don’t think it’s quite that simple,” Locus says, leaning forward and trying to trap Tucker with his stupidly pretty eyes. “This doesn’t just goes away. Is this the first time you had an attack like that?”

God, they’re really talking about this. Fuck. Okay… okay maybe he can try it even though it feels like bugs are crawling over his skin when he just tries to think of what to say here. “Yeah. I mean, I think it was. I don’t really keep track of this shit.”

“You should. It could help if you determine what causes that kind of response so you can prevent it happening in the future.” Locus sounds almost like he’s reading off a cue card, like he went and looked this shit up right before coming over. Tucker has to take a second to decide if that’s nice or weird.

Well, coming from Locus ‘nice’ is weird to begin with. He’s not Felix, he doesn’t say things just to push people’s buttons, but it still seems like there should be some kind of catch here. Tucker’s fallen into the trust hole too many times. Not again.

He narrows his eyes a little, arms crossing over his stomach. “Okay, the fuck is this about?”

Locus blinks at him. Apparently that response wasn’t on whatever plan he had for this talk. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Y’know this whole…” Tucker waves a hand vaguely, which just gets a raised eyebrow. Okay, come on, words. “Diagnosing me thing, this shit you’re doing right now. What’s up with that?”

Shrinking back a bit, which doesn’t actually make him any smaller, Locus looks away. Sitting on the mattress makes his long legs stretch over the floor. The sweatpants he’s wearing are maroon and a little snug on him. Apparently Freelancers aren’t the only one allergic to material possessions. Locus picks at his hands and chews on his lip. “I… would like to help.”

A lot of surprising shit has come out of Locus’ mouth since the guy stopped trying to kill them all, but that’s gotta be the weirdest thing yet. What the fuck does he do with that? Locus wants to help? Help with what? He’s fine. The guy has to have waaaaay more issues than Tucker does. Maybe this is him avoiding that. Or guilt, like he’s trying to fix Tucker to make up for… Chorus? Or trying to kill him? Maybe?

The little warm fuzzy feeling in his chest is so not helping, so Tucker’s locking that shit down. Well, wait. Wait, maybe warm feelings are okay. But not… warm and fuzzy.

Locus is still worrying at his lip with his teeth, but Tucker would really rather use his own for that. Now there’s an idea. Cause really, the main problem here is that Tucker’s just thinking about everything too much, but sitting right next to him is a perfect way to just not thinking about anything but what those scar covered hands might feel like on his skin.

Tucker grins and looks at Locus through his eyelashes. “Well, why didn’t you fucking say so, dude?”

And Tucker gets rid of any space between them as he throws a leg over Locus and makes himself comfortable in his lap. Up close, there’s a lot of green in Locus’ gray eyes, especially when they get all big and surprised. Locus has his hair tied up, but Tucker reaches up and pulls the tie free, letting long dark hair fall down his shoulders in ridiculously soft waves. Okay, yeah, that’s just as awesome as Tucker figured it would be.

Locus’ hands settle on his hips, the heat seeping through his thin t-shirt. A little shift of Tucker’s hips makes his hands tense and that confused face, which is kinda hot in its own way, is replaced by something much more intense and understanding. He blows out a breath that ghosts against Tucker’s lips. “This isn’t quite what I had in mind, Lavernius.”

“Hey man, you said you wanted to help. And what would really, really fucking help right now is taking my mind off this shit. Besides, when’s the last time you got laid?” he asks, winding a bit of Locus’ hair around his finger.

Cheeks darkening, Locus glances away, clearing his throat. He shifts, bringing Tucker closer, which is probably an accident, but Tucker’s still taking it. “I suppose it has been some time…”

“And you’ve been sleeping like shit, right? Everyone knows some quality boning makes it easier to sleep after.” Tucker actually has no idea about that, but it sure sounds true, so he’s sticking with it.

Locus cocks an eyebrow like he doesn’t buy it, but his hands are still curled around Tucker’s hips and he doesn’t look like he wants to bolt. And alright, this is probably a shit idea. Tucker knows that, like he fucking _knows_. But his whole ‘wait and figure shit out’ plan is going nowhere fast. Maybe he can just have his cake and fuck it too. Eat it. Whatever.

This stuff with Locus doesn’t have to be serious. Locus probably isn’t even into him like that. They’ve both got a lot of shit going on, a little stress relief can’t hurt. And hell, maybe if he can forget all his garbage issues for a while, they can actually think about what they want this to be.

It’s a perfect plan, so Tucker leans forward and crushes his mouth against Locus’. This isn’t like the beach. Locus doesn’t kiss like soft lapping waves this time, now he’s a raging, hungry storm. His hands tighten on Tucker’s hips and he arches up against him as he sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. God, Locus is so warm. Tucker gets a hand tangled in his hair and gives a little tug. The growl he gets back sends shivers all the way down to his toes. Holy fuck, he actually growls, that’s not even fair.

His other hand fists in Locus’s shirt as he licks at his lips. There’s a tongue in his mouth that isn’t his and its suddenly a million degrees everywhere and his brain is blank for the first time in weeks and everything is so damn good as he groans into Locus’ mouth.

And then Locus pulls back with a very wet sound and leaves Tucker kissing the air. In one easy motion, Locus switches their positions, setting Tucker on the mattress and looming over him. Tucker’s eyes flick shut again and he leans up for another kiss. He gets one, but not where he wants.

Chapped and bitten lips press to his forehead. Okay that’s… nice. Weird, but nice. Not doing much for his dick, but that warm fuzzy thing is back whether he wants it to be or not as he blinks up at Locus. “Wha?”

It’s not really a full question. Words are hard right now, he’s doing his best.

Locus sighs. “I can’t.”

“Did you forget how? Cause I can show you, dude, I’m awesome at--”

There’s another sigh, but this one sounds like there might be a laugh in it as Locus runs a hand through his hair and pulls back a little. Locus doesn’t look soft exactly, there’s still a whole lot of intensity going on, but the heat isn’t there anymore. If anything, he looks… kinda sad. His hand moves to Tucker’s cheek.

“I can’t be what you need right now. Not like this,” Locus says, sounding a little frustrated. Which Tucker’s so feeling right now.

He scrunches up his nose, brows knitting together. “Not what I need? Wait, dude, have you been talking to Donut?”

“Maybe.” The sheepish look on Locus’ face is enough to startle a laugh out of Tucker. “I believe he does have a point. There are some… some things I need to work on. And I would like to earn your trust first.”

Shit. Tucker half opens his mouth and then he shuts it, because… alright yeah, that’s a fair call. He doesn’t trust Locus. He’s not sure he can. Lately, the guy’s been decent sure, but that doesn’t change shit. And lying and saying he trusts him just to get laid is a little lower than Tucker’s willing to sink.

So, he winces a little, and can’t really look at Locus, cause… he has to be honest here. The dude’s trying to be better right now, so he deserves that much. “That might kinda take a while. I know you’re trying to be all reformed and shit, but… after Felix and Temple, it sorta feels like I can’t even trust myself anymore.”

Huh. Where the fuck did that come from? It’s not that Tucker hasn’t sort of thought it before, but he’s never really looked directly at it for too long. Saying it makes it real and it feels like something clicks in his head. He’s not sure what, but it’s probably something to think about later.

Great, more thinking.

Locus doesn’t look upset when Tucker risks a glance at his face. He doesn’t even look surprised, he just nods, almost like he was expecting it, and gently brushes his knuckles over Tucker’s cheek. “I understand. We both have long roads ahead of us.”

Nice and ominous. Some things don’t change.

Hand dropping away, Locus rises and moves slowly toward the door. He pulls it halfway open, then stops, glancing back over his shoulder at Tucker. “Do you remember what you asked me on the beach?”

“Uh.” Tucker remembers asking a lot of things. They had kinda talked for a while, although bits and pieces of that sorta got lost under the whole ‘holy shit, he’s hot’ thing that started to take over Tucker’s brain toward the end there.

“You asked how long I intended to stay.” Oh yeah. Those definitely aren’t the words Tucker used, but he vaguely remembers asking something about that. Locus’ hair hangs in his face and Tucker wants to get up and brush it back behind his ear. “If it’s alright with you… I think I would like to stay a while longer.”

Leaning back on his hands, Tucker lets a smile slowly spread over his face. “Yeah, I think I can work with that.”

“Thank you, Lavernius. I’ll let you get some rest.” Locus gives him this lingering look, and there’s not even a hint of a frown on his face before he leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

With a sigh, Tucker flops back on his bed. Rest. Right. He’ll get right on that. It’s going to be a long fucking night.

* * *

Maybe it’s some leftover irritation from the cave situation, or maybe it’s the fact that he gets zero sleep and can’t even find where his stupid bouncy ball went, but Tucker’s in a pretty shitty mood when he checks his datapad the next morning. He’s sort of made a habit of checking it when he gets dressed. Palomo’s always sending dumb pictures and sends messages every five minutes if Tucker doesn’t at least respond once a day so the kid knows he’s not dead. There’s usually a message from Kimball or Junior every couple days just to check in.

Today, there’s the usual picture of rocks that Palomo’s shaped into a dick and a brief message from Kimball… and a message from Grey. Huh. Well, he has been sending her Wash updates. Maybe it’s a thank you or a note about his meds or something. He opens it.

There is a thank you in the message, but that’s not the part that makes him want to put the datapad through the fucking wall.

Tucker throws himself out of bed and storms out of the room to pound on Wash’s door. He waits about half a second before just shoving his way in. Wash is already up, because of fucking course he is, and in the middle of doing some kind of workout. Which he shouldn’t be doing anyway. Tucker will yell at him for that later. First things first.

Wash has the decency to look at least a little sheepish and quickly tries to look like he wasn’t in the middle of a pushup, scrambling to his feet. “Tucker, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Washington, how about you fucking tell me?” Tucker bites out the words and shoves the datapad into Wash’s face. “What the fuck is this?”

“Uh, your datapad?” Wash squints at it as if trying to make out the words, which… yeah, he probably can’t with the stupid thing pressed literally up against his face. He takes a step back so he can read it. “A message from Dr. Grey…”

“Uh huh. And what does it say?”

“Tucker--”

“I want to hear you fucking say it.”

“She only wants to help--”

Tucker throws the datapad down. The smack when it hits the floor isn’t half as loud as he wants it to be. “Because you fucking told her?!”

Wash has his hands up in surrender, but he doesn’t look sorry. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”

“Because it’s none of her goddamn business!” Tucker wants to tear his hair out. Why doesn’t Wash get it? “If I wanted her opinion, I’d fucking ask for it!”

“But you haven’t!” Now Wash looks kind of pissed. Good. Tucker’s less of an asshole if he’s not the only one yelling. “You had a panic attack, Tucker. And you haven’t been sleeping, you need to talk to someone about this--”

“Oh yeah? What, like you did? _You’re_ gonna tell me to go see a doctor, really?” Because that’s un-fucking-believable. Wash who’s tried to walk off a broken leg wants to send him to Dr. Grey the first time he slips up a little.

“That’s different!” But Wash doesn’t look super sure as he says it, eyes flicking away like he knows he’s talking shit. Which he should, because he fucking is. Tucker’s not letting him get away with that.

“Oh bull fucking shit, dude!”

Wash pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to calm down and Tucker wants to shove him. Or grab him and shake him. Or just anything to get Wash to yell back. “Tucker, I’m just trying to help you.”

“I didn’t fucking ask you to! I don’t want you going to Grey behind my back to tell her I’m losing it or that I’m fucking up and broken and I need a goddamn shrink to fix me!” Tucker’s got his hands in his hair, pulling. He wants to rip it out, wants to drive his hand into the wall. Because Grey knows. They all know. They’re all going to look at him and just see a fucking mess.

“Tucker…” Wash’s voice is softer now and Tucker hates it. He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Wash’s hand lands on his shoulder. “That’s not what I told her. Is… is that what you think?”

It’s hard to keep screaming at Wash when he sounds like that. Tucker glares at his stupidly clean floor. “It’s what it fucking sounded like. She’s going on about all this therapy shit… I don’t need that. I don’t need someone I barely know picking at my brain to try and figure out why I’m such a fuck up.”

“You’re not a fuck up. Tucker. Tucker, look at me.” He doesn’t until Wash’s hand catches his chin and slowly turns his face so there’s nowhere to look but Wash’s stupid pretty eyes. “That’s not why I went to her.”

“Then why?” Because Tucker doesn’t get it and it fucking burns. Wash going behind his back to get him fucking committed after everything. It’s not fair.

“Because I… I don’t know how to help you.” Wash’s hand drops away from his face and his head ducks, shame written all over him. “I’ve talked to Emily about… about some things. My problems, and she’s helped. I thought she could do the same for you, but it wasn’t fair for me to do that without asking you first.”

Tucker’s got a lump in his throat the size of a planet. Wash actually talking to Grey is a surprise that slaps him in the face. It’s good. He knows that. She could actually help him work through his shit. But… but there’s a tiny, tiny, tiny spark of jealousy.

Because Tucker is selfish and stupid and he wants to be the one to help Wash. And god, that’s so fucked up. What the hell is wrong with him? It’s not like Wash only needs one person. They probably don’t even help with the same stuff. And Grey can’t be around all the time, so… so it’s okay.

Wash still needs him. Tucker can work with Grey on this, hell, that’s already what he’s doing with the updates. They can help together.

And then there’s the whole rest of that. It’s a good thing Wash isn’t looking at him, cause Tucker has no idea what his face is doing, but his eyes are burning and it sucks. “Yeah… yeah you should’ve.”

There’s not as much venom in it as Tucker wants there to be. Looking away, he stares at the wall, because his eyes keep doing that awful itchy prickling thing where they really, really want to get all wet and embarrass the fuck out of him. “I don’t wanna talk to her about it. Not yet.”

The not yet is there for Wash. Because he’s pretty damn sure he’s not going to want to ever. He doesn’t need to. But… if Wash thinks he’s that bad maybe he can think about it.

He drags a hand through his hair, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. “Alright look, if… if I freak out again, I’ll talk to her. But I just--I wanna try to get my shit together on my own first, okay?”

Tucker has to make himself look at Wash, turning a little too slow. A couple different feelings go across Wash’s face. First it looks like he wants to argue, but then it’s like the little hamster wheel in his brain starts spinning and calling him a hypocrite, like it fucking should, and he mellows a little and sighs. “Alright. But Tucker if you need anything from me, tell me. All I want to do is help you.”

“I will,” Tucker lies. Because if this is what happens when Wash sees the tail end of one freak out, there’s no fucking way Tucker’s going to him with anything else. The guy has enough problems, he doesn’t need Tucker’s issues shoved on his plate too.

But he’s a good liar and Wash smiles a little as he reaches out and gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Good.”

Wash’s eyes are all warm and the guilt knife is back again for round three. Tucker squeezes his hand, managing a small smile in return. “Yeah. I think I’m gonna go get some air, but later we should… I dunno, watch a movie or something.”

“I’d like that.”

“Cool.” Tucker starts heading for the door, but he’s not quite done. “Oh, and don’t even fucking think about working out again or I’m siccing Carolina on you, dude.”

“Alright, alright.” He hears Wash laugh sheepishly behind him before the door shuts.

* * *

There’s already someone on Tucker’s rock when he gets down to the beach.

When he gets out of the base, he doesn’t really know where to go. Training with Carolina is a good option, and probably a good way to tire himself out enough to stop playing the conversation with Wash in his head over and over again, but he doesn’t really feel like getting his ass kicked just yet. So he heads for the rock and stops several feet short when he hears Caboose’s tuneless humming.

Tucker pauses for a second before shrugging to himself. There’s enough room for both of them and… he doesn’t really feel like being a dick to Caboose right now. He hasn’t in a while.

Hands in his pockets, he wanders over and drops down onto the rock next to him. “Sup dude. What’cha doing out here?”

It’s not like no one else is allowed in his spot, but people usually aren’t down here unless they follow him. Caboose just shrugs. His legs are long enough that he can stretch out and get his legs in the water up to his ankles. “I wanted to talk to you, but you were busy yelling at Wash, so I thought I should just wait here.”

Tucker winces. Fuck their thin walls. “Shit, you heard that?”

Caboose hums and nods. “Yeah, but it’s okay. I know you and Wash only yell because you have a lot of feelings and nowhere to put them.”

Okay, so he’s not wrong about that. Letting out a breath, he looks out toward the water. It’s sort of shimmery and impossibly blue in this light. “I guess. We worked shit out though, nothing to worry about now.”

“Oh. That’s good. I like it better when you aren’t yelling.” Caboose frowns a little, head tipping to one side. “But sometimes, it is not so bad. Yelling makes it seem like Church is still here sometimes.”

And Tucker suddenly feels like he’s swallowed the entire lake, heavy and stupid and waterlogged. He swallows hard, one eyebrow rising. “Yeah?”

Caboose looks down at him. His big brown eyes are sad, they’ve been like that a lot lately. Not as bad as he was after… after the fight on the ship, or at the crash site, but still. Caboose pats his back. “I think I should say sorry.”

Tucker blinks. “What? Why? What did you do?”

If Caboose covered his bed in mustard again--

“I didn’t let you say goodbye.” Oh.

Wow, it sure is great to just stare at the sand. Tucker grips at the rock, trying to focus on the little smooth dips and crevices in the surface. God, what the fuck is he supposed to say to that? If this was anyone else, he could just blow it off, but… Caboose knows him too well.

And he won’t give him shit for it.

“It’s fine, Caboose. I… I said goodbye to Church way before that. He made all those messages, remember?” Tucker keeps his voice steady, but that’s a close thing. It’s hard not to play the message over in his head now. He watched it over and over again once the techs on Chorus extracted the files from his implants and got them to everyone.

At first, he hadn’t wanted to watch it. That would mean Church was really gone. But a week after, Tucker broke and watched it on repeat for three days in a row. It hadn’t been anything special, just Church being Church. All that was left of him just in a bunch of looping messages.

“Yeah, but that was not the same Church. You never got to say goodbye to the other one. Your Church.”

Okay, Tucker has to look at Caboose for a second as his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “What d’you mean ‘my’ Church?”

“You know. Alpha.” Caboose does this big eye roll that would feel sarcastic on anyone else. “See, Tucker, it’s like this. Epsilon well… he was Wash’s first. Then mine. Then everyone’s. But Alpha. He was yours first. And then mine. Mostly mine. But still yours. And you never got to say goodbye to him. And that is very sad… best friends should get to say goodbye...”

The weirdest part is Caboose saying anyone else might’ve been Church’s best friend. Tucker has to sort of take a second to wrap his head around that part. The other bit is… trickier.

He’s known there were different Churches. Epsilon wasn’t Alpha, he gets that. But actually figuring out what that means is weird. Alpha’s been gone for ages, but it’s pretty fucking hard to be sad about someone dying when ten seconds after you hear that they’re gone, a copy of them shows up acting just like them. Tucker’s thought about it a few times. Or tried to for a bit until his head started to hurt and his eyes started to water.

But he’d done a pretty good job of talking himself into believing it didn’t matter. Church is Church is Church. Any part of him was better than none at all. Except… he’s pretty sure that’s why he was so willing to drop everything for him. That had made it so much easier to not think twice about fucking everything up.

“It’s fine, Caboose,” he says, making himself shrug. He’s supposed to be done being upset about this. It’s not like anything’s changed. Not like seeing Alpha again made things any worse or any better.

“No, it isn’t. But if you want to pretend not to be sad, that’s okay. Sometimes if you pretend enough, it starts to be real.” Caboose pats his back and then drapes an arm over his shoulders. “But if you ever want to be sad, we can be sad together.”

“Sounds depressing,” Tucker says, with a little snort. But he doesn’t lean away from Caboose. It’s a weird offer. So weird, he might have to take him up on it sometime. “Do you remember how Church would always get all pissed when we tried to cook shit?”

“Yeah, he’d yell real loud.” There’s a little smile on Caboose’s face as he nods. “I don’t know why he would get so mad when we messed up the kitchen.”

“Right? It’s not like he ever ate anything.”

“He ate chips sometimes. Which I think is technically cannibalism since computers are made of chips. Maybe it is better he never knew he wasn’t a ghost.” Caboose sounds thoughtful, some of the sadness still there, but at least it doesn’t seem like he’s about to cry.

“Yeah, probably. If he knew he was a computer, I bet he would’ve been an even bigger tool. Like, if he knew he could look up anything just using his brain to win any argument, that would’ve been the biggest pain in the ass. Guess that didn’t stop him from acting like he already knew everything.”

“Yeah, he was pretty great like that.”

Tucker nods before he can stop himself. Since it’s just Caboose, he doesn’t try to take it back. “Yeah… he was.”

Caboose pats his shoulder and lets out a sigh. “At least you and Grif are best friends again, that is nice. And Wash and Freckles are my best friends, so I think it will be okay.”

Tucker cocks an eyebrow. “I’m lower on the friend list than Wash and Freckles? That’s cold, dude.”

Scoffing, Caboose rolls his eyes. “Don’t be silly, Tucker. You are not on the friend list. Brothers do not have to go on any list. Brothers just are, that is how it works.”

Tucker blinks. Huh. Yeah, he has no clue what to say to that. So he just leans against Caboose’s side and listens to him about the new ‘best friend adventure’ he’s planning for him and Freckles.

Brothers… huh. He’s never really thought about it before. When he was a kid, he had always kinda wished there had been more kids around to hang out with. What are brothers supposed to do? They always fight and shit in movies, or one of them dies heroically to save the other or some bullshit. That part seems kinda shitty.

But maybe Caboose is right. Maybe they just are. He can live with that.

* * *

No one else asks about the cave. Which would be a hell of a lot cooler if they had actually forgotten about it. But no. Because these assholes never want to forget anything.

Donut doesn’t ask about it, but he spends the next few days trying to talk Tucker into trying some weird herbal teas and face masks that are supposed to lower stress. He’s already got a kick ass moisturizing routine, thanks. Hey, Tucker’s big enough to admit that it’s not an accident he has awesome skin, you gotta take care of that shit.

Grif and Simmons mostly don’t do anything weird, apart from Grif leaving half his bag of chips for Tucker. So he definitely still feels guilty about it. Which wouldn’t be half as annoying if that didn’t make Simmons super pissy at him. It’s not like Tucker wants Grif to feel like shit, even though abandoning him in a cave was kind of a dick move. Apparently that’s not enough to stop Simmons passive aggressive post-it notes that gradually lose the ‘passive’ part when Simmons just starts balling them up and chucking them at Tucker’s head.

In the weirdest way, he almost appreciates that though. Because Simmons isn’t treating him like he’s about to break.

That’s at least way less bizarre than when Sarge pulls him aside after breakfast and offers to put in a word for him with Dr. Grey.

“She’s real good with emotional problems,” Sarge assures him. They’re sitting in Sarge’s ‘lab’, which is really just a glorified garage. There’s a bunch of half constructed weapons and vehicles all over the place that Tucker is half sure will explode if he looks at them wrong. “Course, I just know what I’ve heard, but she might know a thing or two about your little episode.”

“It’s fine, Sarge. Wash already had her message me about it.” Tucker keeps most of the bitterness out of his voice. He’s mostly over Wash going behind his back. Sort of. But thinking about it again just makes him wanna punch shit.

Sarge raises a huge, bushy eyebrow. “He did, did he? Huh. I take it that didn’t go well?”

“Nah. I don’t wanna talk to her,” Tucker says, shrugging. He picks up the most harmless looking thing on Sarge’s tool bench, a pair of pliers with a weird blinking light on one handle. Talking’s easier when there’s something to do with his hands. “I told him I would if I lost my shit again, but I’m fine now, so I don’t get what everyone’s freaking out about.”

“Hmm. Just like a Freelancer to butt into what don’t concern them.” Sarge shakes his head a little and goes back to tinkering with what looks like a robotic arm. Tucker isn’t gonna ask about it. It’s probably just for Lopez. Probably.

“Well, if you do change your mind, son, I’m sure Emily can clear some time for you. Or if you just want something to take your mind off it all, I’ve got a couple projects I could use an extra set of hands for.”

Tucker blinks at him. Okay, that’s fucking weird. Sarge isn’t looking at him and he says it so casually, but the guy definitely just invited a dirty blue to help work on some of his probably ‘top secret’ projects. He has no idea what the hell to do with that, but it’s not nothing.

“Alright… thanks Sarge.”

Sarge just nods. “Yeah, don’t mention it. Now put those down before they catch fire. I’m still working out the kinks.”

Tucker drops the pliers and decides that’s enough time in Sarge’s workshop when they set the rug on fire.

* * *

 The Reds are weird, but Locus and Wash are worse. It’s not like Tucker had thought either of them would really let it drop, because they’re assholes who can’t let anything go ever and have to turn every little issue into some huge, dramatic mess. Neither of them just come out and say anything, but they hover. A lot.

Locus starts showing up to train with him and Carolina while Wash watches from the hill, pouting like a giant, murderous baby cause he’s not allowed to join in. It’s not so much the joining or even the watching that’s the problem.

It’s when Carolina’s off to the side, talking to Wash about something and Tucker’s in the middle of sword practice with Locus. They go back and forth, wooden blades meeting over and over. Locus isn’t going as fast as he could, but neither is Tucker. He’s blaming the shitty angle of the light that keeps getting in his eyes. Better to blame that than the sleep he isn’t getting again. No sleep means no nightmares. It’s working for him so far.

He doesn’t know what the hell Locus’ excuse is. Could be the same thing, probably is. But the dude isn’t saying. He hasn’t said much all morning, just wordlessly approached the training area and nodded when Tucker offered one of the practice swords.

They’re going back and forth and back and forth and Tucker’s about ready to start yawning in the middle of a fucking sword fight and there’s something wrong with that picture. So he kicks it up a notch. He moves a little faster when he darts in and swipes up at Locus, who blinks in surprise, barely dodging out of the way. Tucker just grins at the raised eyebrows he gets. “C’mon, big guy, is that all you got? I thought you were supposed to be good at this shit.”

If Locus wants to go easy on him, that’s his deal. Tucker’s too tired to play nice.

Tucker fakes right and then slashes left, Locus barely deflecting the blow as he takes a step back. Usually, he’s not one to give up any ground, but the startled look is still all over his pretty face, eyes extra stormy in the morning light. So Tucker keeps pushing.

It’s weird, being on the offensive against Locus. Usually Tucker spends their time training just darting back, trying to get out of range of his impossibly long reach. Well, that’s what he does when Locus isn’t making him stop to correct his form. The guy’s even worse than Wash about that shit. Then again, Wash probably would’ve been just as bad if he actually knew how to sword fight and could tell Tucker all the ways he needs to just try that little extra bit more.

That’s still more annoying than it is endearing. Like, Tucker gets it, but it still drives him up the fucking wall.

Locus keeps stepping back, retreating until he’s teetering at the edge of the training area, Tucker’s sword pressing to his chest. His own sword hands limply at his side, cause he still won’t fucking fight back. Tucker presses a little harder, the tip of the wooden blade digging into Locus’ shirt.

“Dude, seriously? It’s like you’re not even trying. Aren’t you supposed to be the one training me? You could at least try and make it fun when I kick your ass,” Tucker says, maybe amping up the cockiness of his voice a little. God, he just wants Locus to do something, to fight back. “I’m not gonna break if you actually try to hit me, Sam.”

For a second, Locus’ eyes get so big it looks like they might just fall out of his head. A couple complicated looks that Tucker can’t really put a name to flit over his face. Locus settles on something cool, with a hint of a smirk to it that is just doing unfair things to Tucker’s stomach.

“And here I thought you might want a bit of a break today.” And god, Locus sounds so fucking smug when he says it.

Tucker jabs him with the sword again. “Yeah? Thought wrong, dude. Fucking come at me.”

“As you wish.” It’s like a switch flips and Locus knocks Tucker’s sword back with the tiniest flick of his wish. When Locus turns it on, he fucking _turns it on_.

They’ve never gone this fast before. Usually there’s too much hemming and hawing and ‘Lavernius, your posture is terrible’ for it to feel like a real fight. This doesn’t quite feel like an actual fight either though. Tucker can feel wind his his face when he just barely darts out of the way of Locus’ sword and his heart is hammering in his ears when he rushes back in and almost gets in a slash at Locus’ legs before he leaps back.

It’s too much fun to be a fight.

Tucker laughs as he spins out of the way of a rough slash and catches a grin on Locus face when he moves back in and sword clacks against sword. “This is more fucking like it, dude.”

“I’m so glad you approve. Watch your footing.” Locus catches Tucker’s sword on his and forces him back,

He rolls his eyes, but another laugh sneaks out. “Yeah, yeah, I’m watching. What are you, my mom?”

“I certainly hope not, that would make the other night very uncomfortable, don’t you think?” Locus is teasing him. Locus with this cocky smirk and light in his eyes is flirting at him in the middle of a sword fight and it feels like the best dream Tucker’s hand in months.

Or it does until he gets distracted for a second and Locus moves too fast for him to block and his sword flies out of his hand, a crack echoing from where Locus’ smacks against his wrist. Pain shoots up his arm and Tucker staggers back cursing. Fucking shit that stings.

He wiggles his fingers and that hurts a little, but everything’s still working. There’s probably going to be a hell of a bruise, but that’s nothing he hasn’t got working out with Carolina before. No big deal.

But he suddenly has two giants in his space fussing at him. Wash is there first somehow, grabbing his arm to inspect the damage. “Are you alright? Can you move your fingers? Locus, what the hell was that?”

“It was unintentional. I thought he would block it.” Locus is looming over both of them, hands hovering, but not touching. Like he’s afraid to, guilt in his eyes that Tucker hates. “Lavernius, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--”

Jerking his arm away, Tucker steps back. “I’m fucking fine! It’s not broken, would you get off me? I can take a couple hits, Jesus Christ.”

He shakes out his arm a few times and turns away from them, because if he looks at either of them right now, he’s going to keep yelling and he’s not sure he’ll ever stop. Grabbing his sword off the ground, he tests his grip and gives a few experimental swings. His arm still stings, but the pain is already fading, because of course it is. Turning back toward them, Tucker finds concerned eyes and glares back.

“See? Just fucking fine,” he says, swinging the sword again for emphasis.

Wash doesn’t look convinced, crossing his arms over his chest. “Are you sure? If you need to stop--”

“I don’t! Locus hit me, it’s a sword fight, that shit fucking happens! I can handle it. What I don’t fucking need is y’all acting like… like I’m about to break or some shit!” Tucker doesn’t mean to yell, but they both recoil a little.

Goddamn it. He shouldn’t have to feel bad about that. They’re the ones being dramatic and freaking out. He gets to be pissed that they think he’s some fragile thing they have to protect now. Cause it’s fucking bullshit. He’s fine. He can take a few hits if he has to. He’s not just going to fall apart again.

And he just hates this. Hates how warm his stupid fucking face is and how he’s breathing hard and he can’t calm down even though they both just want to help.

They’re both still looking at him all cautious and concerned and Tucker can’t deal with this right now. He looks away and throws his training sword on the ground. “Fuck this. I’m gonna take a lap.”

He goes before either of them try to call him back.

* * *

After a lap and a shower, Tucker’s not angry anymore, but he almost wishes he was. It’s worse just feeling like crap for overreacting.

He should probably try and sleep it off, but after lying in bed for ten minutes, his brain won’t shut up and stop replaying the whole garbage fight over and over again. Alright, sleep isn’t happening. Knowing his luck, even if he tried, he’d just have another goddamn nightmare.

So he pushes himself up and trudges out of his room. There’s no one in the main living area, so he plops down on the couch. It might have been beige at one point, but a few years worth of stains have made it a sort of odd brown color that turns out to be like twenty other much worse colors if you look at it too close. Most of it is covered in blankets that are various tints of red. Tucker grabs a soft orange one that smells like French fries and pulls it over him. They’ve never been able to get the heating in the base quite right, so some places are always a little too hot and the TV room is just a touch too cold to be comfortable.

Perfect for snuggling, Donut had declared when they’d given up on trying to fix it, making Tucker about eighty percent sure that he had done it on purpose somehow. The only thing Tucker feels like snuggling right now is a giant tub of ice-cream or maybe a bear, so it could just rip his head off and put him out of his misery.

At least the TV works. There’s not a whole lot on, but it’s enough of a miracle that they get reception out here, so no one complains much about the shitty channel options. There’s a couple that just play a bunch of old movies. Tucker flicks through channels until he settles on watching the last twenty minutes of some old Star Wars parody that’s actually pretty funny.

He watches through three movies before Donut and Lopez wander through the room to start on dinner. Donut waves, but other than that, they don’t bother him. Good. Maybe Wash warned them about his storm off before. Whatever. The fewer people riding his ass, the better.

No one bothers him until dinner and Caboose pokes at his shoulder until he comes over to take his usual seat. The shitty chair next to him is left open for his feet, Wash taking the seat on the other side of Caboose without so much as looking at him. Locus is nowhere to be seen. Good. Fine. Just what he fucking wants, everyone to give him some room to breathe.

Except that, okay, maybe it would be nice if someone tried to talk to him once during the casual dinner conversation. But that’s not happening. Everyone’s probably thinking he’ll bite their head off. Which… alright yeah, yeah he might.

So after being dragged into the kitchen by Caboose to wash dishes, he sulks his way back to the couch. Cause he can admit that’s what he’s doing, sulking. And it sucks.

It’s like someone just unloaded a dump truck of shitty feelings all over him and then ran him over with the truck so now he’s half underground with this giant pile on top of him. If he could just find a way to claw his way back up and just… get all this shit off him…

But he can’t. It feels like he can’t move. And the more he can’t move, the deeper into the shit he sinks. So he watches bad movies and tries not to think about anything.

Somewhere between the seventh action movie and the fourth rom com, everyone gradually trickles past him, heading for their rooms. Grif pats him on the shoulder as he passes and Caboose ducks to kiss the top of his head. Which is gross, but makes it feel like a little of the shit has fallen off the pile, so he doesn’t complain.

He should probably try to go to bed, but moving sounds like it would take about four times the amount of effort he has right now. Fuck it, if he stays up a few more nights, maybe he’ll be tired enough when he finally crashes that the nightmares will give him a break.

The only moving he does is when he gets up to grab a giant mug of coffee in the middle of one of the shitty Terminator movies. He doesn’t actually know which one this is, but it’s so shitty that when he gets back, he flips to another channel just in time to watch a bunch of losers playing baseball break into song.

Next to him, the couch creaks and groans as Wash sinks onto it. “What’re you watching?”

“I dunno, but I’m pretty sure the two guys singing at each other are gonna fuck after this.” They don’t, which is kind of a let down, but whatever. Tucker’s having a harder time paying attention with Wash so close their arms keep brushing.

Wash doesn’t look at him, eyes fixed on the TV even as he reaches for the back of the couch and pulls a ratty old red blanket that has what’s definitely motor oil staining one corner around him. It’s not till almost the end of the movie that Wash opens his mouth again. “So…”

“If you ask how my arm is, I’m gonna shove you off the couch.”

“I guess that means it’s fine then,” Wash says, with a faint snort. It’s tiny, but that makes the horrible shit pile feel a little less heavy. “Do you want to talk about earlier?”

“Nope,” Tucker says, maybe a tiny bit more forcefully than he means to, but he leans to rest his head on Wash’s shoulder. He’s not sure which of them should be apologizing here, or if either of them even should. But Wash doesn’t press the issue and after a second, he leans his head against Tucker’s and lets out a little sigh.

They watch two more singing movies until Tucker gets tired of watching a bunch of freeloading hipsters sing about death and switches channels until he finds something with explosions. He’s looking away to stifle a yawn when the door opens, which is probably the only reason he notices it, because whoever’s doing it is trying to come in the room as quietly as possible. Tucker glances back at the TV so Locus can pretend to be sneaky and silently move into the corner of the room apparently unseen.

Yeah, he’s pretty sure Locus always forgets that he’s not in armor anymore… and that he’s a literal fucking giant no matter how small a corner he tucks himself into.

Tucker shifts a little so he can glance at Wash. Judging by the very slight curl of his lips, Wash hasn’t missed the intruder either. At least he doesn’t feel tense where Tucker’s leaning against him. Maybe he and Locus are cool now. Or closer to it. He doesn’t know what kind of talks they’ve had and he doesn’t want to, but maybe they actually listened when he told them to work their shit out. That’d be cool.

He waits until the explosion movie ends before he sighs and chucks a cushion at Locus. “Dude, just get over here.”

There’s a little hesitation and he’s pretty sure that indignant silence means Locus was super sure neither of them noticed him. But then Locus settles slowly onto the couch on Tucker’s other side, back stiff and straight until Tucker drapes a painfully pink blanket over his shoulders.

“What movie is this?” Locus asks after a few moments.

Tucker shrugs. “I dunno, something with pirates? Or maybe knights. There’s a hot dude with a sword in it, that’s what I’m here for.”

“Far enough,” Locus says, inclining his head a little. He glances at Wash over the top of Tucker’s head, which is totally not annoying at all. Fucking tall assholes. Tucker has the worst taste and the worst type.

Locus settles back against the couch and only twitches a little when Tucker kicks his legs up onto his lap. A large hand slowly comes to rest on Tucker’s knee and he suddenly wishes there wasn’t a blanket in the way so he could feel more warmth sneaking through.

It’s a pretty good spot honestly, back leaned up against Wash’s side, with one of Wash’s arms slung around his chest, and Locus’ other hand finding his ankle where it pokes out from under the blanket, thumb tracing little circles into his skin. Tucker’s eyes start drooping and he lets them.

Because right here, with Wash’s yawning in his ear and the steady motion of Locus’ hand, things feel a lot less shitty. And maybe… maybe he can finally trust himself enough to get some goddamn sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaahhhhhhh thank you so much to everyone for the nice comments! This fic has grown into something a lot more than I expected it to and it just means so, so much that people like it! So, just for the record, I wanna say that the way Tucker's handling things here isn't healthy, don't try this at home kids. If there's any more tags people want me to add, please let me know! Finally getting into the whole point of this fic here, so get ready for some LUCKINGTON BED SHARING coming up soon!


	4. Chapter 4

Tucker’s warm when he wakes up. Warm and a little bit squished.

He’s less stretched out over the couch and more smooshed into the place between two giants, who can’t seem to agree who’s lap he should be on. But one of them has their fingers in his hair, so he keeps his eyes shut. Shit, he could just fall asleep again right here. The one that isn’t playing with his hair is still passed the fuck out too, judging by the soft, even breathing from where their head has dropped to rest on his shoulder.

When he finally opens his eyes, which could be days later, Tucker finds Wash pressed up against his back. Apparently he shifted in his sleep to find the best way to squish Tucker against Locus while draping as much of himself over him as possible. His breath tickles Tucker’s neck and his arms have a surprisingly good grip around his middle. Figures that even in his sleep, Wash won’t let shit go.

That part he kind of expects. What he doesn’t see coming is the arm that Locus has loosely looped around both of them. Huh.

Tucker starts shifting a little, though he’s careful not to move Wash too much. The hand drops out of his hair as he looks up at Locus, which kind of sucks. It’s been way too long since the last time someone just sat and messed with his hair. He blinks up at Locus, who still looks about half asleep too, eyes half open as he doesn’t quite bite back a yawn.

“Sup, big guy? You get any sleep out here?” Tucker notices that he’s kind of got his arms thrown loosely around Locus. Might as well just leave those there. Locus a hell of a lot warmer than the blanket’s that mostly slipped off him, and his shirt is one of Caboose’s old ones, worn thin enough in some places that Tucker can feel the lines of muscles and scars through it.

Sleepy brain thinks that feeling up Locus is definitely something that needs to happen again and soon. Probably without the shirt. No, definitely without it.

Locus moves like he wants to stretch, but also doesn’t want to get up, one hand settling on Tucker’s knee, which is still in his lap and not going anywhere any time soon. “I believe I did.”

“No bad dreams or anything?” Because Locus actually looks well rested for once. It’s a good look on him, his face less pinched, everything about him a little relaxed and easy.

“None that I can remember. And you, Lavernius?” His hand goes up to brush Tucker’s hair back from his face. Scarred fingers skim over his cheek and Tucker’s dick is just awake enough to take interest.

“Nah. See, I told you sleeping with someone else around helps with that shit.” This fucking proves it. All three of them actually managed to sleep for… however the fuck long it’s been. It feels like at least five, maybe six hours, which is pretty fucking good by Tucker’s standards now.

Locus doesn’t look convinced, one eyebrow rising a little. Tucker’s close enough that he could reach up and try to push it back down. He’s also close enough to be pretty fucking sure that Locus plucks his eyebrows, cause there’s no other way they would be that neat and angled. “I suppose. There may be more to it than that.”

There’s a faint noise behind Tucker as Wash shifts a little, pressing his face into the crook of his neck. Wash drools in his sleep. There’s a little stain on Tucker’s sweater from it. Gross, but kind of endearing. Mostly gross.

“Perhaps we should talk about this later,” Locus says, voice barely above a whisper now.

Tucker shrugs the shoulder Wash hasn’t called dibs on with his face. “Don’t worry about him. When Wash is out, he’s out. We could talk shit about him and he’d never even know. You want to? It’s fun.”

Locus looks at him flatly, or he tries to, the twitch to his lips gives him away. “Is there a point to that?”

Tucker snorts and rolls his eyes. “Not everything has a point, dude. Sometimes you just gotta do shit for the hell of it, like pay Sarge to fill Wash’s toothpaste tube with peanut butter.”

“You actually did that, didn’t you?” Locus doesn’t miss a beat and Tucker grins at him.

“If anyone asks, Caboose did it.”

“I see.” There’s something that’s almost a smile trying to sneak onto Locus’ face and it’s just unfairly attractive. Like how the fuck is that legal? “And there’s no point to that… at all?”

“Nope,” Tucker says, grin growing as he lets the p pop. “Sometimes you just gotta be spontaneous and shit, man, just do whatever feels right.”

Locus’ eyebrow ticks higher. “And filling Agent Washington’s toothpaste with peanut butter feels right?”

“Fuck yeah it does.” As far as his ideas for messing with Wash go, Tucker’s pretty sure that’s one of his better ones. The pranks started back in the crash site, when he was still somewhere between aggressively pissed off by and aggressively attracted to everything Wash did and said. It’s mellowed since then, nothing that could actually hurt or upset him, just little annoyances or weird things to catch him by surprise.

For some reason, Locus gives him this long look, his hand settling on Tucker’s knee again. “You’re an enigma, Lavernius.”

Tucker’s not sure what that means, but firing back it ‘your face is an enigma’ probably isn’t the best thing to do here. He’s just going to take it as a compliment and grin a little wider. Maybe he can look it up later, if he can figure out how the hell to spell it.

There’s a soft sleep noise from Wash as he shifts a little, arms tensing around Tucker’s middle before he lifts his head up and blinks at the room blearily. The front of his hair is sticking up in a dozen different directions making him look like a character out of one of Simmons’ nerd cartoons. Tucker reaches up to gently smooth it down. “Morning sunshine, you sleep good, dude?”

“Mm. Coffee?” Sleepy Wash is basically useless until he fills himself with enough coffee and sugar to give a regular person a heart attack. Useless and cute as fuck.

“What’s the magic word?”

“Please?”

“I mean, I was thinking ‘blowjob’, but I guess that’ll work.” Tucker keeps grinning even when Wash gives him a very unamused look.

“You suck.”

Tucker just grins wider as he shrugs. “I mean, I could, but you’ve gotta ask a little nicer than that.”

Wash groans and presses his face back into the crook of his neck. “I’m going to bite you.”

“Is that a threat or a promise, Wash?” Tucker laughs and manages to keep from twitching when he actually feels teeth on his neck. Goddamn it, it’s too early for this. And alright, yeah, he’s had a few dreams where he wound up between Locus and Wash, but they usually have a lot less morning breath.

“Okay, okay, coffee’s coming up, asshole.” He’s still laughing as he presses a kiss to the side of Wash’s head. It takes him a second to realize the air has shifted. His knee is cold.

Tucker glances back at Locus, who’s suddenly doing his best to stare at the ceiling. The arm that was around Tucker and Wash is flattened to the back of the couch and both of his hands are several inches away from touching anyone, his back stiff as a fucking board. Well, Tucker’s not letting that happen.

So he leans up and kisses the corner of Locus’ mouth before his brain catches up with him. If Wash gets one, he gets one too, then it’s not weird. Locus blinks like he just woke up again. His mouth opens halfway like he’s going to ask something. There’s probably a lot of questions he could throw out here, but Tucker doesn’t really want to have any kind of serious conversation before coffee. Or ever really.

“You want coffee too? Or just water for one of your weird ass teas?” Tucker asks before Locus has a chance to recover.

Locus blinks at him six more times, eyes flicking to Wash and back. “Water. The tea bags are--”

“I know, dude, behind the cereal in the oatmeal tin.” After that time Caboose tried eating one of the tea bags and the other time when Sarge found one and was convinced it was some kind of herbal grenade, Locus has moved his tea at least a few times a week. Tucker can’t pronounce the names of any of them, but he knows how to make it.

He kisses Locus’ cheek and then wiggles out of Wash’s grip, leaning him against Locus’ side when he starts listing to one side. “Stay.”

Tucker says it as a joke, but when he looks back after wrestling with the coffee machine for ten minutes, they’re both still right where he left them. Wash has his arms crossed over his chest, but it looks like he might fall asleep again leaning against Locus, who’s gone all stiff and straight backed again. They’re not killing each other at least.

There’s vague sounds from down the hall as the rest of the base starts waking up, so Tucker grabs a couple more mugs and starts going through the cupboards. They don’t really have a cooking schedule for anything other than dinner, but hell, he’s up, so he might as well. Pancakes are fast and easy and he’s made them so many times, he can set his brain on autopilot.

More time to think about other things. Because he’s feeling good, like really good. Tucker hasn’t slept that well in years. He’s pretty sure he’s onto something here. His eyes drift back over to the couch. Maybe he needs to run a few more experiments, scientific method and all that bullshit, but an idea’s starting to form and it feels like a good one.

* * *

Four days later, he gets Wash and Locus in his room, both looking a little lost where they sit on the edge of his mattress. Tucker has to take a second to appreciate that, cause he’s had too many daydreams to count that started that way. Alright, focus. Stay on target.

They’re sitting farther apart than either of them usually would if he was the one next to them, but they aren’t fighting and they keep sneaking little looks at each other. The kind of looks that means they’ve had at least a couple conversations about Tucker. He’s not an idiot and they’re both obvious. But he can worry about that later.

He just has to figure out how he wants to do this. Earlier, he had debated writing it out. But reading from a datapad would definitely throw him off. Winging it has worked before. He just has to pick his words carefully.

“What is this about, Tucker?” Wash asks before he gets a chance.

Alright, just… just fuck it. He can do this. It’s not like it’s a huge thing.

He turns toward both of them and forces his jaw to unclench. “We should sleep together.”

Shit. Okay, that’s more abrupt than he meant it to be and they both stare at him. Locus keeps looking between him and Wash, eyes so wide and moving so fast, Tucker’s pretty sure they’re gonna fly out of his head. Wash looks like he’s expecting a punchline. Damn it. Alright, he’s got to explain himself here.

“Not as a sex thing,” he says, a little too quickly. “Just a sleeping thing.”

“Not a sex thing?” Wash repeats, a huff of a laugh coming out. “Are you feeling alright, Tucker?”

“Ha fucking ha, dude.” Tucker rolls his eyes. Yeah, sex is his thing, he gets it. He’s not ashamed of that, or the fact that he would jump both of them if he had the chance. But there’s some shit to sort through first. “I’m fine, asshole. But I’m serious, just hear me out, okay?”

Wash sighs and glances at Locus, who looks like he’s trying to turn invisible. “Alright, explain.”

Tucker takes a breath. Neither of them have stormed out yet. Already going better than he expected.

“So y’all remember the night on the couch, right?” Judging by the looks he gets and the one they exchange, Tucker’s calling that a yes. He’s just going to charge on ahead before either of them can protest. “I slept great. Like really fucking great, and I know it’s not cause of the couch. That thing’s a piece of shit. And I’m pretty fucking sure neither of you woke up screaming. So I’m thinking that the three of us should make it a regular thing. Except without the shitty couch.”

The brilliant plan is out there, so Tucker steps back and waits for the the applause. It doesn’t come. Fucking rude. Wash and Locus stay where they are, frowns on both faces.

Lips pressed to a thin line, Wash hums, sounding thoughtful. “I don’t know. That night… there were other factors.”

Tucker cocks an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Wash says nothing. Ha. Not so easy to poke holes in the idea, is it? Tucker puffs up a little, letting a smug grin slide onto his face that he’s definitely earned.

The mattress creaks as Locus leans forward, hunching in on himself, arms resting on his knees. “Lavernius, I understand your reasoning, but… this seems unwise.”

“Why?” But Tucker knows the answer as soon as he asks and makes a face. “Nightmares? Okay, news fucking flash, dude, we all get those. You’re not special, sorry. And look, as long as you’re not sleeping with knives and guns and shit stashed all over the place, it’ll be fine even if you do. I know y’all like doing the paranoid super soldier thing, but at some point you’ve gotta stop keeping that shit under your pillow.”

Tucker only has room to talk because he keeps his sword in a shoebox at the foot of his bed instead. That makes him careful, not paranoid. Totally different.

It’s not like they’re going to get attacked on the moon anyway. Not without Sarge’s four million alarms going off. All the traps the old man and Carolina set up together would stop anyone way before they got to the base. They’re safe here.

Maybe one of these days that’ll sink through all their stupid thick heads. And yeah… Tucker’s including himself in that. His brain still doesn’t seem ready to get with the program either.

Locus is making a face, if Tucker didn’t know better, he’d say the guy’s pouting. Is he upset about not being special? Or Tucker saying he isn’t? Because that’s a whole other weird conversation that he’s so not up for right now. It’s been a fucking long four days.

Tucker knows he’s not the only one feeling it. The bags under Wash’s eyes have at least doubled in size and Locus just looks like he’s been punched in the face a few times. Which… maybe he has. These two really still shouldn’t be left alone together, Tucker’s gotta set up a babysitter for them or something.

Whatever, stay on target.

“Look, I’m just saying we try it a couple times and see if it works? Cause you both look ready to pass the fuck out right now. I know Caboose never gets tired of dragging your asses in here when you collapse outside, but that shit’s getting old.” Alright, maybe Tucker’s exaggerating a little.

Wash makes a face, probably ready to point out that that’s only happened twice, but then he takes a breath, stopping himself. And then, catching Tucker totally off guard, he looks at Locus appraisingly. Huh, okay that’s new. Definitely good new.

“I guess we could give it a try. I’m willing to give it a few days at least,” Wash says, shrugging a little.

Locus just stares at him, looking a little betrayed. “You think it’s a good idea?”

He sounds so incredulous and that’s kind of insulting, but he’s got two out of three, so Tucker’ll let it slide. Wash shrugs again, bigger this time. “I don’t think it’s going to hurt anything. My bed’s too small, but yours or Tucker’s should be fine. I figure at the very least it can’t make things any worse.”

For some reason, that kinda sounds like a challenge, like he’s daring Locus to argue with him. But he doesn’t. After holding Wash’s gaze for a few long moments, Locus sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Fine. We can try.”

Tucker keeps his victory fist pump mostly restrained. “Fuck yeah. Alright, I’m thinking we try tomorrow night? Cause uh… I should probably wash my sheets and shit first.”

Wash and Locus both look at his mattress, as if noticing for the first time that it’s bare and pretty sad looking. One of Wash’s eyebrows ticks up. “You know, I was going to ask about that--”

“You don’t want to. Trust me.”

Wash sighs and drags a hand over his face. “Very classy, Tucker.”

The real reason is on the tip of Tucker’s tongue, but he bites it down. Wash doesn’t need to know. Because it had been stupid. Falling asleep with a giant mug of coffee in his lap was so fucking pathetic, but kicking it all over his bed when a nightmare jerked him awake was even worse.

Let Wash think what he wants. It’s fine. Not like it’s going to be a problem anymore. Tucker’s got it all figured out. Everything’s going to be just fucking fine.

* * *

The first night sucks before it even really begins.

They talk a little more about the arrangement on the day of. After a little back and forth, they settle on giving it a week of testing before deciding whether or not it works. Tucker’s pretty sure they’re only going to need a day or two, but a guaranteed week of curling up with two hot dudes isn’t something he’s saying no to.

Locus is twitchy all day. He’s in the kitchen, leaning against the wall and sipping at today’s tea, which reminds Tucker very strongly of the way his grandma’s closet smelled after he accidentally knocked a bottle of what she had insisted was perfume off the shelf. Tucker spots the way his hands drum on his mug and the wall easily.

Because tapping and twitching and fidgeting is his thing. Locus is all about that still sort of calm. Tucker’s seen him stand completely frozen like he’s not even breathing for hours at a time. So the twitching is weird. But it’s not like it takes a genius to figure out why. The shadows under all of their eyes are still big and bold and going nowhere fast.

Well, not until tonight anyway. Because this is going to work. It fucking has to.

Deciding to ignore the way Wash is going through a box of Lucky Charms to fix himself a bowl of marshmallows at the table, Tucker pushes himself off the counter and wanders over to Locus. Locus greets him with a solitary raised eyebrow. Tucker answers by reaching out to pick fluff off his sweater. Nice and nonverbal, perfect way to start a serious talk.

“You good?” Tucker asks after a few moments.

“Fine.” Locus sips at his tea. Wow, they’re both feeling super chatty today.

Maybe it’s that he’s pushing day five of ten minutes of sleep a night, but Tucker feels like there’s this shitty cloud hanging over his head just drenching everything. But he’s gotta keep looking up. There’s a good night coming.

He cocks an eyebrow at Locus. “You sure? Cause you look like you’re kinda spacing out over here. You want food or anything? I think Wash’s got some cereal he doesn’t want over there.”

Locus’ eyes cut over to Wash and he makes a face like he’s too good for Lucky Charms. God, Tucker can’t believe he wants to blow this guy. Fucking cereal snob. “I’d rather not. I hardly see how that even counts as food.”

Over at the table, Wash says something that’s impossible to make out through the large amount of marshmallows he just shoved into his mouth. The finger he holds up in Locus’ direction is easy enough to understand though. Tucker snorts, rolling his eyes at both of them as he grabs Locus’ arm and pulls him over toward the counter. “I’m making you eggs then, and no, I’m not gonna fish the yolks out, you freak. And if you start talking shit about cholesterol and trans fats, I’m gonna punch you.”

“I don’t understand how you all haven’t died of heart failure,” Locus says, with the heaviest sigh.

Tucker snorts and just starts fumbling through a cupboard for a frying pan. “Yeah, yeah, we’re all gross, I get it. How about you fucking bite me?”

“If you insist.” Locus sounds like he’s teasing, which is fucking bizarre, but also super nice at the same time. It’s jarring enough that Tucker doesn’t really have time to process what he actually said before Locus takes one of his hands and lifts it up to bite lightly at Tucker’s palm. The pressure is barely there, teeth digging into the meat of his hand ever so slightly. It tickles more than anything else.

Well, except for the little tingly feeling that goes up Tucker’s arm, down his spine and straight to his dick. He hates his fucking thing about hands. And his thing about mouths, specifically Locus’ mouth on his hand, which is giving him a serious case of mush brain right now.

He hates his dick. He hates it so fucking much. Like, it’s awesome and great at plenty of things, okay mostly one thing, but now is so not the time.

Tucker makes a couple sounds that definitely aren’t words and has to focus very hard on not dropping the frying pan he’s got in his free hand. Smooth. So fucking smooth. Maybe he can try to play it off. “Dude, what the fuck.”

That’s better at least, except for the way it comes out kind of breathy and a little higher pitch than he means it to. Locus is a smug asshole who calmly pulls Tucker’s hand from his mouth, one eyebrow rising. There’s a look on his face that’s almost curious and that can’t mean anything good. Well, okay, it probably means something fucking awesome that Tucker can’t let himself have or even think about right now, which is the fucking worst.

“Is there a problem, Lavernius? I was only doing what you suggested,” says Locus, because he’s a smug monster person, who likes to make Tucker’s life hell. God fucking damn it. Where’s the guy who, days ago, didn’t want to bang because of trust issues or something that suddenly seems way less important now because Locus is still holding his hand. A callus covered thumb drags slowly over the lines of Tucker’s palm and his knees almost buckle.

It feels like it’s been years since the last time Tucker got laid and no part of this is fair.

Wash coughs at the table and Tucker’s suddenly jolted back to reality. He wiggles his hand out of Locus’ grip and turns his attention to the shitty burner. “Dude, get off me and grab the eggs.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tucker sees Locus nod before heading for the cooler, a hint of a smirk on his face. Jackass. He risks a glance over his shoulder at Wash, no idea what the hell he’s going to see there. Jealousy seems like a solid maybe. But that’s not what Tucker sees.

Wash’s brows are knit together slightly, eyes watching Tucker in a way that makes a little shiver go down his spine. These assholes are going to kill him. More than anything else, he’s pretty sure that’s Wash’s thinking face.

Whatever, Tucker’s got eggs to make. Just gotta shove a lid down on all those stupid, distracting feelings. He can’t deal with that right now. Once his plan works, once they’re all fucking sleeping, he can work that shit out. Then he’ll feel like himself again and be able to sit down and have a serious talk with his dick.

It’ll get better tonight, he tells himself. They’ll get their shit worked out, his brain will calm the fuck down, and they’ll just figure out what the hell they’re doing. He’s got this.

Or he thinks he does until the three of them get into his room.

There was an attempt to clean it. Well, alright, like half of an attempt. He at least got all his laundry taken care of and put away, and the sheets are back on the bed and smelling like daisies because Donut can’t just get normal laundry soap. Whatever, it’s good enough. He even steals a fan from Grif’s room, it gets a little hot in his sometimes and sleeping naked probably isn’t going to fly this first time. Maybe later in the week though.

Tucker just gets the last of his shit shoved into the shitty excuse for a closet in the corner of his room when there’s a soft knock on his door. “Yeah? I’ve got pants on, come in.”

There’s a slight pause before the door pushes open and Locus glances into the room, looking him up and down dubiously before stepping in. “So I see. Unfortunate.”

As twitchy as the guy’s been all day, apparently he’s still up for messing around, which might be a good sign. Or he’s just so sleep deprived that he’s gone the other way and is starting to get kind of weird. Tucker’s been there. So he just snorts and goes back to trying to force his closet door to stay shut. Well, it’s really less a door and more just a piece of wood on a hinge made of string that sort of covers the hammered in dent in the wall that he uses as a closet.

They really need to get better at this whole base building thing.

Fairly sure that the door’s going to stay, he turns toward Locus and waves a hand at his room. “Make yourself at home, I guess. Wash should be in soon, I think he’s tucking in Caboose.”

Locus frowns at the mattress for a moment before moving to sit on the very edge of it, like he’s trying to touch as little of the bed as possible. Not a great start. Before Tucker has a chance to go over and tell him to chill, the door opens and closes again as Wash walks in, already yawning.

He glances between the two of them as he rubs at one eye. “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting. Caboose wanted me to get to the end of the chapter.”

Tucker shakes his head. “It’s all good. So, we doing this?”

Locus nods silently, still looking like he thinks the mattress might come to life and try to swallow him whole. There’s another yawn from Wash, which is probably a yes. But he doesn’t stop there.

“I think so. Just one thing first.” And Tucker turns to ask just in time for Wash’s mouth to smash into his.

Uh. What. Tucker’s brain shuts off completely as Wash’s hands cup his face, holding him in place as Wash kisses his way into his mouth. It’s warm and soft and Tucker can feel it all the way down to his toes. He still doesn’t know what’s happening, or what to do with his hands and Wash pulls back before he can figure it out. Wash’s grin is lazy and a little smug as Tucker blinks at him. “The fuck, dude?”

“Goodnight kiss,” Wash says, as if that explains it. Then he walks right past Tucker and steps around Locus onto the mattress, settling down on the side closest to the wall, putting his back to it.

Tucker needs a few more seconds to reboot his brain. His lips are all buzzy warm and tingly, a faint hint of Wash’s minty toothpaste hanging around as a reminder. He looks over at Locus hoping for maybe mutual confusion, but he doesn’t find it. Locus’ hands grip the edge of the mattress tight and his lips press to a thin line. Before Tucker can ask what crawled up his ass and died, he flops onto his side and jams one hand under the pillow, eyes snapping shut.

Ooookay, so that’s how this is going to go. Just fucking great. The warm, happy, buzzy feeling in his chest settles and dims and he tries to shut off the part of his brain that keeps playing the kiss over and over like a sexy high light reel.

There’s not really anywhere else to go, so Tucker turns off the light and awkwardly climbs over a suddenly very immobile Locus’ legs to get to the middle. As soon as he gets in place, Wash koala clings to his side, smug prick. “The hell was that about?” he hisses out of the corner of his mouth.

“Testing a theory.” For some reason, Wash doesn’t sound happy about it, the part of his face Tucker can make out this close looking a little pinched and frowny. He lets out a sigh and rests his head on Tucker’s shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. Get some sleep.”

Well, any happy bubble of feeling is definitely popped now. Doesn’t matter. Okay, fine, fuck you too, Wash. The mint in his mouth suddenly tastes bitter and Tucker forces his eyes shut.

The next morning takes a million years to come and Tucker’s pretty sure none of them sleep more than five minutes at a time, all stiff spines and clenched jaws. And they’ve got six days left of this.

So much for his brilliant plan.

* * *

Tucker’s not talking to Wash.

Both he and Locus clearly wait until the first possible second to get out of bed, leaving as soon as the clock on the datapad Wash keeps checking ticks over to five. Fine. Whatever. Let them go. Fuck those guys. Tucker stays in bed a while longer, pulling the blanket up over his head. It smells like feet and daisies under there, which doesn’t help him get back to sleep, so he forces himself up with as many irritated, over dramatic sighs as possible.

Too bad no one’s there to see. Tucker would’ve made an awesome actor, he can so play it for those cheap seats. So when he ignores someone, he knows for a fact they know. Although Wash is also pretty good at ignoring it when he’s being ignored. Makes the whole thing that much more frustrating.

It also makes it pretty hard to make a point of ignoring and not talking to someone when they’re not around to be passive aggressive at. Tucker doesn’t see Wash all morning. Locus either. They aren’t at breakfast and neither of them show up when he goes to train with Carolina, who doesn’t hold back even though Tucker’s pretty sure he looks like hot garbage right now.

In a weird way, he sort of appreciates it. Carolina doesn’t pull her punches or freak out if she knocks him down, even after she does it for the fifth time in a row. She sighs as she offers her hand and pulls him up again. “You’re off today.”

“I know, I know. Let’s just go again.” Tucker brushes himself off and braces for her to come at him again.

He’s sore by the time they stop and she helps him stretch out a little, but it’s a good sore. She gives his shoulder a squeeze as he straightens up. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, just slept like shit last night. You know how it is.”

She nods understandingly. The bags under Carolina’s eyes aren’t quite as bad as they were when she first showed up, but they’re still there. “You should let Donut burn some incense in your room.”

Tucker snorts, one eyebrow rising. “You seriously let him do that? I never figured you’d be into the weird hippie bullshit.”

“If it works, it works,” she says, shrugging. “It’s better than Locus’ weird tea. I let him make me some the other day.”

“No you didn’t.” Tucker’s eyebrows shoot up when she nods. “Fuck, what did it taste like?”

Carolina makes a face. If she wouldn’t pile drive him for it, he’d call it cute. “Not as bad as it smelled, but there was definitely a distinct hint of ass in there.”

Tucker snickers. “Figures. Dunno about incense… I could do scented candles though, those are way sexier.”

“Of course.” Carolina rolls her eyes at him, but she’s smiling as she shakes her head. “I think he’s got a few of those too, you should ask.”

“Yeah, I might.” He nods a little and she claps him on the shoulder before heading off for her usual cool down half marathon. Carolina’s calmed down a lot since they first met, but he’s still pretty sure she’s got a few more years to go before she figures out how to crank down her dials to relaxation mode.

Tucker should probably go after her, but the tiny amount of energy he had when they started is long gone and he’s running on fumes. So he shoves his hands into his pockets and trudges back to the base, making faces at the ground. Are Wash and Locus avoiding him? Did he fuck something up last night? God, he’s too damn tired for this bullshit.

Grif and Donut are sitting on top of the base when he gets there, which seems weird for a second before he realizes there’s a very Simmons sized gap next to Grif. Whatever they’re talking about, Donut doesn’t look happy with it. Which is weird. Tucker can count like four times he’s seen the guy not smiling in all the time he’s known him. They stop talking as soon as Grif spots him and reaches over to nudge Donut. Okay, something’s up.

Good thing none of these idiots are any good at being subtle.

“Oh heeeeey Tucker,” Donut greets, voice way too casual to be genuine. His smile looks a little off too. Jesus Christ, everyone just wants to be weird today. “Aren’t you supposed to be training with Carolina?”

Tucker blinks at him. It’s not like it’s a secret that he trains with her in the mornings, but there’s just something shifty about that question. “Nah, we just finished up. The fuck are you two doing up there?”

“Just keeping watch--ow!” Donut stops abruptly when Grif punches his arm.

Grif quickly swaps out the annoyed look for his usual bored one as he shrugs. “Nothing much, man. Just shooting the shit.”

That’s the biggest load of crap Tucker’s heard in a while. He cocks an eyebrow. “Yeah? And you’re just hanging out with Donut instead of Simmons? Uh… no offense, Donut.”

“None taken! I was just leaving anyway because _some people_ are feeling a little rude today,” Donut says, shooting Grif a very pointed look before heading over to the rickety ladder leaning against one side of the base.

Grif shrugs, apparently not bothered by Donut’s exit. Red Team problems are fucking weird. “He’s doing nerd shit, probably. I dunno, man, it’s not like I’m in charge of him.”

“I thought he was in a meeting.” Donut sounds a little too innocent. He hops down from the ladder and moves to stand at Tucker’s side. He crosses his arms over his chest and cocks one hip and Tucker has to wonder when the hell Donut turned into everyone’s mom.

Jolting up straight, Grif slams a hand down onto the base. “Donut, what the fuck?! What’d I tell you about snitching?”

“What the hell are you even talking about?” Tucker looks between them. He definitely walked in on… something. Some weird secret thing that he should probably care about, but all he can think about right now is getting inside and downing as much coffee as possible.

“I didn’t say what the meeting was about, or that it was with Wash and Locus. Wait--oopsie.” Donut presses a hand to his mouth as he glances at Tucker. He doesn’t actually look sorry. Like at all. Tucker’s pretty sure he’s getting some kind of meaningful look here, but he doesn’t even know where to begin with that. If everyone could just stop being cryptic and weird for twenty minutes, that would be great.

At least part of what he says manages to sneak through the irritated fog. Tucker’s brows knit together. “The fuck is he meeting with them for?”

For some reason, Donut reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. “What a good question, Tucker!”

“Donut, I swear to god,” Grif says, some unspoken threat clear in his tone.

He’s missing something here, but that’s just about the only thing Tucker’s sure of at the moment. His arms feel heavy and his eyes itch and he just needs to go inside and chug about four pots of coffee. He should be getting some kind of hint from Donut and the soft, warm hand on his shoulder, but all he can focus on is the weirdly intricate nail polish he’s wearing that kind of looks like it’s glowing.

So he shrugs out of Donut’s grip and drags a hand over his face. “Y’know what, I changed my mind, I don’t give a fuck. If y’all wanna start making sense any time soon, I’ll be inside.”

Tucker brushes past Donut, pretty sure more arguing starts up behind him before he’s halfway in the door, but he’s just too tired to give a shit.

* * *

By the time it’s dark out, Tucker’s half sure they should just call the whole thing off. Maybe that night on the couch was a fluke. It wouldn’t be the first time Tucker tried to repeat something that worked only to have it blow up in his face.

He needs to get Wash and Locus to talk. That’s the real issue here, he knows that. There’s a lot of fucked up nonsense there that they need to work through. If only either of them had a setting between friendship and murder. Well, he’s not super sure Locus has a friendship setting at all, it seems more like a ‘tolerate this particular idiot for a set amount of time’ setting. He’s probably too busy tolerating Tucker and Grif to have room for Wash there.

And okay, Tucker isn’t blind. He knows that there have been some looks between the two of them, and he’s heard bits and pieces of the weirdness that went on with them ages back when he thought Wash and the others were kidnapped. Donut hasn’t given too many details, because of course that’s the one thing the asshole is tight lipped about.

Tucker hates that particular thought phrasing. He hates it a lot.

The main thing he knows is that Locus was pulling an Every Breath You Take and trying to get in good as a friendly little stalker. Friendly large stalker. Without the friendly part. Whatever.

So he gets it if Wash is a little iffy on the dude. Hell, Tucker’s still feeling that sometimes. It’s fading. More than he ever thought it would. If he lets himself think about it, he knows that there shouldn’t really be any moving past the shit Locus has done. Maybe it’s the fact that there’s just so much fucked up shit that he can’t actually wrap his brain around all of it that makes it so much easier to focus on the weird smelly tea sipping loser with pretty eyes and drool worthy hands.

In his head, he knows he should see past that and that trusting Locus is probably one of the dumbest things he could do. But he wants to. And not just because that could get him laid. Like, that factors in, there’s no denying that. It’s just so hard to remember the terrifying murder monster Locus when he remembers Sam shaking and shivering in his arms, holding Junior’s nightlight so carefully, teasing him in the kitchen, fitting into a hole Tucker hadn’t realized was there.

He should have talked to Wash more about this. About Locus. Tucker should fucking tell him about how he wants to climb Locus like a tree, but he has no idea how the hell to even start that conversation. Because it’s not that he wants one murder machine instead of the other.

Tucker is a selfish asshole and he wants both. And he’s pretty damn sure that if he keeps trying to go for all of the above, he’ll end up with nothing at all and deserve it.

Everything feels pretty shitty when there’s a soft knock at his door. Tucker looks up from his pacing and goes still, trying to stick a smile on his face. Which is stupid. He shouldn’t be smiling at Wash. God, he sucks at giving people the silent treatment.

So he wipes the smile off his face and crosses his arms over his chest. “If you wanna run another test, you should probably wait till Locus gets here. Or are you gonna have Donut come in and set up a camera or some shit this time?”

Wash deflates a little. Good. Suck it. That was an awesome burn, at least he’s getting something right today.

Sighing, Wash drags a hand through his hair, gaze dropping to the floor. Shit, he looks so tired. Tucker steadies himself. Don’t comfort him, Wash was a dick and hasn’t said two words to him all day. Stay strong.

“I should apologize for that. It wasn’t… I explained it poorly.” Wash sighs again and he moves to sink down onto the edge of Tucker’s mattress. There’s a sympathetic voice in Tucker’s head that sounds a lot like Caboose that says he should go sit next to him, maybe put an arm around him and tell him it’s all gonna be okay. Sometimes he misses Church’s actual voice in his head that would’ve shut that shit down.

Tucker cocks an eyebrow. “So what the fuck was that about then? Testing some theory?”

Wash grimaces, rubbing at his temple. “It wasn’t so much a theory as… actually, it doesn’t matter what it was. I shouldn’t have just sprung that on you without warning. Especially not with Locus there.”

Well… okay, maybe he doesn’t have to feel that bad about it. Frowning, Tucker slowly moves to sink down next to him, stretching out one leg. “It’s not like it was a bad kiss, dude,” he says, not looking at Wash. “And I’m not pissed about… about you actually doing it.”

“Good. I mean, I’m glad.” Wash has this tiny smile on his face, but still a serious case of guilt eyes. Goddamn it. Tucker knows they used to be better with talking about emotional shit. Hell, Wash was pretty much the only one he could talk to about that stuff for ages. What the hell changed?

Tucker makes a face at the floor, picking at the edge of the mattress. “So… is this--are we a thing?”

“I don’t know.” And it’s the weirdest kind of relief to hear Wash say that. At least they’re both on the same lost as fuck page there. “We should probably figure that out.”

“Yeah, probably.” It’s not quite as comforting when it gets pretty fucking clear neither of them’s gonna say anything after that. It would be so much easier to talk about feelings if they could just get past the whole issue of ‘you’re kind of my best friend but I really want to stick my dick in you’ without it getting awkward.

Cause it’s not just that he wants to fuck Wash, but that’s definitely a thing he wants to keep on the table, because anyone who doesn’t want a piece of that freckled ass is either blind or dead. If they could do a bros with benefits thing, that would be great, but… but that’s not what Tucker wants.

Sneaking peaks at Wash out of the corner of his eye, Tucker suddenly knows he wants to wake up next to this asshole forever. He wants to hold his hand and laugh at shitty movies with him. He wants to show Wash all the dumb old music he likes and ask him where he grew up and if he ever wants to go back there. He wants to be the person Wash goes to when he’s feeling like garbage and he wants to know all the right things to say to make it better.

Well fuck. The realization kinda sneaks up on him and smacks him upside the head like a wet bag of sand, leaving him reeling and feeling a little clammy and off balance.

That’s probably why he jolts to his feet the second Locus knocks at the door and rushes over to yank it open so fast he almost trips over himself twice. Get some air, get a little room to breathe, because all that sappy nonsense is going to smother him. He leans against the door and slaps a smile into place. “Sup dude, you ready for bed?”

And that’s when he notices the burning look in Locus’ eyes. Tucker didn’t really think there was a ‘more intense’ for Locus to get, but there if fucking is. Locus looks past him for a second, and he’s pretty sure he hears Wash get up. “Locus, wait--”

Tucker never finds out what Wash was going to say there, because the next thing he knows, Locus’ hand is on the small of his back, guiding him into the kind of kiss that only happens in those old movies Sarge pretends not to watch and cry about. Thank fuck Carolina’s been making him stretch more, because he’s in one hell of a back bend as Locus dips him and Tucker throws his arms around his shoulders cause he’s not sure where else to put them. It’s the kind of kiss that should come with a fucking Disney soundtrack, warm and soft and just enough tongue to make it a good fucking thing Locus is already holding him up.

When Locus pulls away about a century later, Tucker sucks in a deep breath. “Holy shit.”

Locus looks a little smug, and yeah… alright, Tucker can give him that. But then he looks up and frowns at Wash, who Tucker can’t really see without looking at him upside down. For some reason, upside down Wash has both hands pressed to his face and sighs so big it fills the whole room. The fuck is that about?

It’s kinda hard to think about a whole lot with Locus still all over him. Tucker shoves at his chest. “Dude? You feel like letting me go any time soon?”

Apparently he does, because then Tucker is on the floor. Today sucks. Everything sucks. He just wants to go the fuck to sleep.

Locus apologizes somewhere above him and both he and Wash shove hands Tucker’s way to try to pull him up. Tucker ignores both and pushes himself to his feet just long enough to shuffle over to face plant onto the mattress.

“Lavernius…” It sounds like something’s supposed to come after that, but then there’s just whisperings that are just quiet enough for Tucker to not be able to make out.

“Tucker, do you want us to go?” He should probably say yes to that. Both of them are assholes and Tucker doesn’t have the patience right now to deal with whatever the hell is going on with either of them.

But he doesn’t want them to go. Either of them.

So he rolls over to the far side of the mattress, leaving plenty of room for both of them. “Just get the fuck in here.”

There’s about a minute before the mattress creaks and Tucker’s a little annoyed with himself for the fact that he knows without even thinking about it that that’s Wash’s chest that presses to his back. Locus’ hand lands on his arm a second later and it’s so much harder to be annoyed with either of them like this.

He forces his eyes shut and tries to even out his breathing. But his brain won’t shut up. It’s another very long night.

* * *

The third night is as bad as the second and Tucker’s just about ready to scream. After the second night, he’s pretty sure this heavy, shitty fog settled over his brain and it’s still there on what’s going to be day four of his master plan.

They had tried shifting up who went where the night before, thinking maybe that was the problem. But Locus was stiff as a board between him and Wash and there’s just no way to get comfortable next to that.

Now they’re all awkwardly circling around each other in the kitchen, trying not to cross paths or make direct eye contact and Tucker wants to scream his lungs out. This shouldn’t be so hard. He’s always been, well… not great at helping Wash with his problems, but he’s pretty sure that most of the time he didn’t actively make them worse. And Locus had been doing better too. But now they’re all tight lipped and twitchy. Locus has staked out a corner of the kitchen and glowers at anyone who gets too close. Sitting on the counter, Wash has been sorting out marshmallows from his cereal in a daze, never quite filling a bowl since he eats half of them before they get there.

Tucker sits at the table, poking at burnt eggs. They’d probably make a pretty shitty pillow. God, he wants to sleep, but it’s just not happening. Even waking up freaked out and screaming would be worth it if he could just get his thoughts to stop going in circles and poking at him and reminding him that he needs to get his shit together. Because he fucking knows that. He needs to just take a deep breath and move the fuck on so he can deal with other shit.

His stomach decides eggs are the worst and he pushes his plate away. Maybe if he gets a little fresh air and just clears his head it’ll be easier to sift through things. No one stops or questions him on his way out of the base. Good. Great. Perfect even. Being left the fuck alone is so what he needs right now.

Just Tucker and his thoughts. Fucking perfect.

It’s a little warm out as he heads down to the beach. They still aren’t totally sure how seasons work on the moon. Simmons was working on some project a while ago, compiling a whole bunch of data about air currents and record temperatures charted by scientists on Chorus. That had been another conversation Tucker had zoned out pretty quick on. The rest of them are calling this the moon’s summer until they’re proven wrong.

His rock is a little warm to the touch, but the water is still nice and cool as it nudges at his bare feet. Maybe he could sleep out here. Just for a couple hours. This might be a good place for it actually. Not like he’s gonna get lost on a wide open beach, and there’s no one around to fuss at him if he freaks out, no one to worry about him losing his shit. He should drag a blanket or something out here and try it later.

It’s still early-ish, but there’s vague sounds coming from up the hill, probably Sarge’s latest project or Caboose going on an adventure with Freckles. The fact that stuff that normal is still happening is weirdly reassuring. The rest of the world is still turning even if it feels like he’s getting more and more out of sync with it.

Soft footsteps make the sound squish behind him and Tucker sighs. He doesn’t really know who to expect, but somehow he’s not surprised when a flowery smell hits him in the face and Donut drops down next to him on the rock, smile as bright as ever. “Oh hey Tucker, I was hoping you’d be down here.”

“Sup Donut, is the base on fire again?” Even though it’s not a surprise that he’s there, Tucker can’t remember Donut ever coming down to the beach with him before.

Laughing, Donut waves a hand dismissively. “It’s not on fire, silly. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You’ve been walking around funny all morning. And not in a good way.”

Tucker drags a hand over his face. Of course this can’t just be a normal conversation. Sometimes he wonders why he has the reputation as the pervy one when they’ve got Donut wandering around spouting that kind of shit. “I’m fine, Donut. Just… haven’t been sleeping well. You know how it is.”

“Actually, I get a full eight hours a night and woke up fresh as a daisy this morning,” Donut says, shrugging.

“Oh.” Huh… for some reason that’s weird to think about. Like, Tucker knows that not everyone has nightmares, or at least not recurring ones, but it’s not something he’s spent a lot of time on. And it should be a good thing that Donut can sleep like a normal person, some of them should. But somehow thinking about that makes him feel a little more alone.

Donut’s hand alights on Tucker’s where it rests on the rock. “Is there a reason you haven’t been sleeping? Is the… uh… company a problem?”

Tucker can’t fight down a wince. Of course he knows Locus and Wash are camping out in his room. It’s not like they’ve been trying to keep it quiet, but Tucker sure as shit hasn’t talked to anyone else about it. It’s none of their goddamn business. But Wash and Donut are sort of friends--he has no clue how or when that happened--and he’s pretty sure Locus is a little scared of Donut for some reason, which is fucking impressive.

“Not really? I don’t fucking know, dude. It’s weird, usually having someone else around helps and I know it works for Wash too, but now it’s not and they’re being so fucking weird lately.” Letting out a huff, Tucker shakes his head. “I just don’t fucking get what the problem is.”

“And that’s bothering you? Them acting strangely?”

“No shit it’s bothering me. I’m supposed to be… y’know, helping them deal with their shit and I can’t fucking do that if they start acting like… like--fuck if I know, cause they’re not telling me shit!”

It’s only when Donut squeezes his hand that Tucker realizes he’s almost shouting. Fuck. Taking a breath, he drags his free hand through his dreads. He shouldn’t be freaking out about this. It’s not like anything’s happening to him, he’s just the impatient jerk who’s too frustrated with himself to think straight.

“Oh Tucker.” And god he hates Donut’s tone. He doesn’t look at him, because those big blue eyes are going to be drippy with pity and he doesn't fucking want it. “It’s so, so sweet that you want to help them, but you know that isn’t your job, right? And that certainly shouldn’t come before your own problems.”

“What fucking problems?” He’s too loud again, damn it. Tucker takes another breath. It’s cool. He’s cool. He’s got this. “I’m fine, Donut. I don’t have problems--well, y’know, not like theirs. My shit is just… I dunno, dumb basic stuff. No big deal.”

He finally glances at Donut and finds him frowning, lips pursed. “Is this something one of them told you?”

“What?” Tucker blinks at him, eyebrows rising. “No, course not. I mean, no one had to tell me. That’s just how this shit goes. Some people have real, big problems. And then there’s people like me who just need to suck it the fuck up.”

“Would you tell Caboose to suck it up?” Donut tips his head to the side, looking calm even as Tucker recoils, because what the fuck is that question?

“No. I mean, yeah maybe if he’s crying cause he stubbed his toe or something, but he’s mostly just sad about Church, and that’s fine, he gets to be.”

“And you don’t?”

Tucker makes a face, looking out toward the water. “It’s not the same. Look it’s just… you don’t get it, alright.”

“No… no, I don’t think I do.” And Tucker’s sure he’s said something wrong because Donut just sounds so fucking sad. When Tucker glances over at him again, he’s looking out at the water. And shit, okay, his eyes look kind of watery. Fuck. Tucker isn’t great with tears, especially when they’re his fault. Shit, what does he do here?

But Donut just sniffs and takes a breath as he pulls a floral handkerchief from… somewhere. Tucker doesn’t want to know where he was keeping it. Donut just gently dabs at his eyes and then sets it on his lap, folding it up neatly. “Well, if you don’t want to talk about that now, just know that I’m always happy to listen if you feel like you need to explode all over someone.”

“Uh… yeah, I’ll remember that.” He won’t. In fact, he’s planning on blocking out that particular part of the conversation as soon as one of them leaves.

Donut offers him a smile and gently squeezes his shoulder. “Now… as for the Locus and Wash situation, their behavior really is bothering you, isn’t it?”

“I mean… yeah. I just don’t know what the fuck they’re doing.” Tucker shrugs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It’s like I’m getting all these weird signals, y’know? And I just don’t know what the fuck they want me to do with all of it.”

The level of understanding on Donut’s face is strange. Suddenly Tucker remembers the argument between him and Grif the other day and has a whole lot of questions. He squeezes Tucker’s shoulder again. “I can imagine. Wash and Locus need a little talking to, but don’t you worry, I’ll get everything sorted out there. Boy am I glad you said something. I didn’t want to talk to them without knowing it was a problem, but it’s about time. They’ve been driving poor Simmons crazy trying to work out that schedule of theirs.”

Schedule? What schedule? Tucker’s halfway to asking, but Donut’s already getting up and brushing bits of sand from his cut off shorts. He flicks his hair back over and gives Tucker a thumbs up. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Tuck, I’ll make sure to get your big boys back in shape. They won’t know what pounded them when I’m done.”

Okay, there’s a lot in that, but Tucker’s going to need about a year to work through it all, so he just picks what seems like the most important bit to fix. “Hit them. It’s ‘won’t know what hit them’.”

“That too!” Donut winks and turns on the spot, heading back toward the base with a little bounce in his step.

Tucker slowly looks back toward the water, certain of only the fact that he has no idea what the fuck just happened there.

* * *

Tucker doesn’t see Locus or Wash the rest of the day.

It’s not that weird of a thing at first. Everyone has their own shit they do to keep busy. When Tucker finally decides he’s got enough sand stuck between his toes and leaves the beach, he heads back up the hill to find Carolina for a little sparring. She’s in the middle of helping Sarge test out… some kind of vehicle at the top of The Cliff. There’s four big cliffs they’ve found exploring the moon, but this one is the closest to the base and the one that Sarge seems to have a personal issue with for whatever reason--Tucker’s pretty sure it’s because the rocks there look sort of blue when the sun sets--so it gets to be The Cliff.

Tucker gets dragged over to help work on whatever it is, he sees bits of jeep and half a motorcycle in there, but it also has wings and treads. Sarge calls it the Walrus, for some reason. It’s not like there’s anything better to do if Carolina’s over here, so Tucker resigns himself to a couple hours of tightening bolts and holding things in place for Sarge to weld.

Sarge sets the blowtorch down and inspects his work. It’s not until too late that Tucker notices he’s a little too casual about it. “So, you still having trouble sleeping, son?”

Oh goddamn it. It’s hard to shrug when he’s holding a giant slab of metal in place, but Tucker tries anyway. “Yeah, I guess.”

But Sarge doesn’t push it, he just grunts and lightly pats his shoulder. “Well, if you’re ever up late, I got plenty of projects I can set you up with. Helps take the mind off things.”

It’s a weird offer, but not a bad one once he thinks about it for a second. He does kinda like working with his hands, and it’s a lot easier not to think about shit when he’s cooking with Caboose or sparring with Carolina. Maybe the old man’s onto something here.

“Yeah… alright. I could do that. Thanks Sarge.”

Sarge just grunts again, this time like he’s uncomfortable with the gratitude. Motioning for Tucker to follow, he leads him around to the other side of the vehicle to hold more things in place. Carolina’s already there, trying to hammer out the dents in a large sheet of metal.

They don’t talk a whole lot, but the silence is comfortable and the work requires enough attention that Tucker’s brain finally shuts up for a bit. Maybe this is the problem. He needs a fucking hobby.

He stays at it for a few hours before Caboose shows up to drag him off for a picnic with him and Freckles. It’s in the usual spot, blanket and basket already there. Caboose plops down and starts babbling about this and that, telling him all about the adventure he and Freckles went on that morning, exploring around Locus’ ship. Tucker listens enough to keep Caboose happy and digs through the basket, trying to find a sandwich that doesn’t have the crusts cut off.

They’re there for about twenty minutes before Donut shows up, looking very proud of himself as he sits down and carefully crosses his legs. “Sorry I’m late, fellas. Ooh, are those scones?”

Tucker tosses over the bag he points at. “What kept you?”

“Just a little… project I needed to look into, nothing to worry about, Tuck.” The way he says it makes it sound like it’s definitely something he should worry about, but Donut’s quick to ask enough questions to get Caboose rambling again, so he doesn’t get the chance.

He doesn’t really think too much more about it. If he were Sarge or Caboose, that would be different, but for the most part the stuff Donut gets up to isn’t that bad unless there’s matches involved and nothing seems to be on fire at the moment, so it’s probably no big deal.

* * *

 Locus and Wash don’t show up at dinner. That’s not really odd for Locus, but Tucker frowns when the chair Wash usually takes on Caboose’s other side is filled by Donut instead. He pushes food around his plate letting it get cold--which really isn’t too much of a loss since it was Simmons and Donut’s night to cook and the weird meat substitute goo they used smells worse than Locus’ tea. His eyes flick to the door every few minutes as he chews at his lower lip.

“Anyone seen Wash today?” he asks, once most other people are done trying to force down the food.

Caboose shakes his head, curls flopping into his face. No one else answers immediately, but a couple weird looks get passed back and forth. Donut reaches across Caboose to pat his hand. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Tucker. I’m sure Wash is just fine.”

And alright, that’s suspicious as fuck, but before he can ask, Donut leaps up from the table and heads for the door. Tucker’s halfway up to follow him when Caboose grabs at his arm and drags him back into the kitchen to do the dishes. Up to his elbows in suds, he sighs. “Everyone’s so fucking weird today.”

“Yeah,” Caboose agrees for some reason. “But it’s probably okay. Admiral Buttercrust knows what he’s doing. He is very good with people and making them stop doing stupid things.”

Tucker blinks at him. Because what? Who’s doing something stupid? Wash? “Dude, the fuck are you talking about?”

Caboose’s hand lands on his shoulder, still a little damp and drippy from the dishes. “Everything is going to be okay, Tucker.”

That’s weirdly ominous. Tucker just decides to let that one go. He starts yawning halfway through trying to scrub imitation meat gunk out of a frying pan. Caboose gently takes it from him and nudges him out of the kitchen. Fine, whatever, not like he wanted to clean dishes anyway.

It’s early still, but he’s already drooping, so he heads to his room. He should wait for Wash and Locus, assuming either of them are actually going to show up. Maybe he should go look for them. Cause the more he thinks about it, the weirder it is that neither of them have been around at all. Locus doesn’t usually hang around anyone that isn’t Grif for too long, but even then, he kinda looms in the background a lot, watching everyone like a friendly-ish stalker. Could be he went off with Grif into the caves for some bro time and then he got lost in there.

Or maybe he and Wash went off somewhere to kill each other. That sounds like a thing those assholes might do. God, why didn’t he try to look for them earlier? Does he have to babysit everyone on this goddamn moon? Well, okay, not everyone. Just two of the ones that could snap someone in half with their bare hands. Thank god Carolina’s not as dramatic as those two, Tucker doesn’t know what the hell he would do if there were three of them.

He sighs and starts trying to figure out where he left his shoes because someone has to go find those idiots. As he digs one show out of his closet, there’s a soft knock at the door. “Yeah?”

The door opens with a soft creak and Wash and Locus shuffle in. Oh. Well alright, search party canceled then. Tucker sighs, more relief in it than he expects, as he turns toward both of them, crossing his arms over his chest. “Where the hell have you been?”

They’re both looking more at their feet than him, sheepishness dripping off them. Wash rubs at the back of his neck. “We just… had some things to work out. Sorry if we worried you.”

Tucker scoffs. “Dude, y’all weren’t even gone a day, the fuck would I be worried about?”

They both look at him and Tucker’s pretty sure they don’t buy that for a second. Fine, whatever. So he was worried, big fucking deal. “So are you two good now with… whatever the fuck’s been going on?”

Locus nods slowly, glancing at Wash out of the corner of his eye. “I believe so. Lavernius, I believe we owe you an apology.”

“What for?” Tucker cocks an eyebrow. Sure they’ve pulled some weird shit the last few days, but Wash already kind of apologized the other day for his.

“Franklin didn’t tell you?” Locus’ brows knit together and Tucker has to take a second to remember who the fuck Franklin is. Locus and his weird first name thing. He should probably ask about it sometime. There’s probably some weirdly intense mercenary logic going on there.

“Tell me what?”

Locus opens his mouth, but Wash beats him to it. “It’s nothing. Nothing you need to worry about. Locus and I just--we had an idea about something and Donut helped us figure out that it wasn’t a very good one.”

Tucker blinks at him, but Wash just smiles, small and innocent, although Tucker’s starting to think that the dude has never been innocent in his life. After a second, he sighs and drags a hand through his hair. “Find, whatever. Be weird. Can we just sleep?”

“Of course.” Wash doesn’t get the relief off his face fast enough for Tucker to miss it. He heads for the bed, sinking onto the mattress before reaching for Tucker.

Uh. Okay? Tucker blinks at him and then Locus, who doesn’t seem to notice or care, crouched in the corner pulling off his boots. That’s when he notices it. There’s something… different about the air in the room. Before, there’s always been this kind of tenseness whenever Locus and Wash were in each other’s breathing space. But now it feels off somehow. A little more comfortable. Maybe.

Whatever. Tucker shrugs to himself and lets Wash pull him into bed. They stay chest to chest and Wash’s hand finds one of his between them and gives a soft squeeze. His hand is lined with little scars and nicks, probably from his knives, Tucker’s traced them before a few times, but he never gets tired of it or the way Wash’s fingertips are always just a little cold when he’s been outside too long.

The mattress shifts and creaks behind him and Tucker sucks in a breath as Locus’ chest presses to his back. Jesus Christ, it’s not fair for someone to be that buff and warm and solid. Locus’ hand slowly settles on his waist, thumb moving in little circles.

“Is this alright?” asks a low, rumbling voice that he can fucking feel with Locus pressed up against him.

“Yeah. All good, big guy.” Tucker says, forcing a deep breath down as his eyes slip shut. And he is. It is. This is good. It feels different than the times before. Better.

Locus’ hand slowly moves, his arm wrapping loosely around Tucker’s chest. Something bumps against his forehead and Tucker opens his eyes. He shuts them again just as quick cause Wash’s face is close enough to make him go cross eyed.

Tucker has no idea exactly what’s changed here, but whatever it is, he thinks he kind of likes it. Eyes still shut, he lets his breathing even out and for once, his brain can’t find anything to turn in circles and spin out of control. So for the first time in ages, Tucker gets a good night’s sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaahhhhhh thank you so much to everyone for the kudos and comments on this! You're all so, so sweet and I'm so glad that this is getting such a positive response! So this chapter has a lot of stuff kind of going on in the background that'll be explained more when things wrap up next time. This story has become so important to me, so I'm just so, so happy that people like it! I'll try to get the next chapter up soon!


	5. Chapter 5

Tucker wakes up to the sound of soft voices. They’re quiet, like they’re trying hard not to be noticed. Well one of them is trying, the one Tucker can still feel rumbling against his back. The other one sounds a little more excited. 

He should probably open his eyes and look around and figure out what the fuck Donut’s giggling about in the corner of his room, because he knows that fucking laugh and this mattress is lumpy in all the right places to be his. But he’s so warm and there’s a massive hand moving slowly up and down his side and soft breath blowing from a mouth very near his collarbone. If he wakes up, at least part of that’s going to end and all he wants is for it to fucking last. 

But Jesus Christ does his nose itch. 

Maybe if he moves really slow and brushes it like he’s still sort of sleeping. Nope, as soon as he starts moving, he feels Locus go still, hand stopping where it curls just above Tucker’s hip. Damn it. 

“Lavernius?” Locus’ voice is still very soft. He hasn’t moved away yet. Hopefully that’s a good thing. 

Tucker opens his eyes slowly and rubs at his nose until the traitor of an itch goes away. It’s hard to move much with the way Locus is still pressed to his back and how Wash has shifted to curl against his chest, but he moves a little so he can look up at Locus, who’s propped himself up on one arm. He looks like a model out of one of Donut’s magazines that Tucker has definitely never stole or looked at several times during alone time. His hair is loose and hanging so it frames his face, which looks so soft in the dimly lit room. It should be illegal for anyone to be that pretty.

There’s a muttered goodbye from Donut across the room and the door shuts. Tucker readies himself for the awkwardness that’s definitely going to fall. But it doesn’t. Instead, Locus reaches for his face, gently brushing his knuckles over Tucker’s cheek. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did, yeah.” The temptation to turn his head to the side and just lick those fingers that are still hanging out on his face is so, so strong. Just gotta force that down. Wash is literally pressed up against him right now and the guy can sleep through a lot, but trying to get in Locus’ pants next to him would probably be at least a little fucked up. 

So Tucker just wiggles and arm free of where it’s caught between him and Wash so he can play with Locus’ stupid pretty hair. Hey, if the guy didn’t want it getting messed with, he shouldn’t be half leaning over Tucker and letting it hang all over the place like some kind of sexy hair waterfall. 

“What about you?”

“I managed several hours,” Locus says, with a little nod. “I’ll admit that you may have been onto something.”

Tucker grins so big it hurts. “Fucking told you. Alright, you’ve gotta say that again when Wash wakes up.” 

One of Locus’ eyebrows goes up as he glances over at Wash. And then he kind of just… keeps looking. Tucker doesn’t really blame him. Wash is fucking adorable when he’s actually asleep. All the tension finally goes out of his jaw and his face smooths out and looks about five years younger than… however old he is. Tucker’s never actually asked, just figured that Wash is at least a couple years older than him. There’s still some dark circles under his eyes, probably always will be, but they stand out less now, his freckles and the scars much more eye catching. 

“He’s cute like this, right?” Tucker nudges Locus a little. He sort of expects Locus to suddenly pretend he wasn’t staring or to lie and say Wash isn’t fucking precious when he actually sleeps. 

But Locus is just full of fucking surprises right now. He reaches for Wash slowly and carefully runs his fingers through his hair, smoothing down the odd bedhead angles. “He is.”

One eyebrow creeps up Tucker’s forehead. Okay, that’s kinda weird. Definitely good weird, but still. “Y’all really worked things out yesterday, huh?”

Locus stills for a second. Tucker feels him shrug more than he sees it. “We still have… certain things we need to discuss, but we made a start.”

“Cool. I mean, it’s about fucking time, kinda figured I couldn’t leave you two alone together without shit going down,” Tucker says, a laugh in his voice. 

Locus looks at him with widening eyes, because the dude couldn’t control his face if his life depended on it. He’s sheepish as fuck when he looks away again. “I… wasn’t aware that was a concern.”

Does he feel bad about that? Is that what that look meant? It sorta looked more like he’d been caught doing… something. Tucker feels like there should be an extra piece here that he’s missing. Whatever. He shrugs it off. 

“It wasn’t like… that big a deal. And I sorta figured Wash would be the one to start shit more than you, he does that.” And maybe Tucker’s a little too fond when he says it and shifts his cramped up arm to wrap it loosely around Wash’s shoulders. Wash doesn’t wake up, but he makes a soft, snuffly noise and rolls closer, mushing his face into Tucker’s chest. 

Jesus Christ, no one who’s done as much shit as Wash should be allowed to be that cute. Seriously, what the hell?

Tucker can’t really fight down the smile that’s forcing itself onto his face. Even if this is the only time this sharing a bed shit works, this’ll be worth it. He ducks his head a little, pressing his face into Wash’s hair. It tickles and smells like strawberries. Turning to look back at Locus, he expects an eye roll, because that was kind of disgustingly gooey to have to watch. 

But Locus has this weird soft look on his face. There’s none of that pissed off frown that he had the other day when Wash kissed Tucker in front of him. Now he’s smiling a little, looking like he doesn’t even know what he’s doing. That easy smile does more to Tucker’s insides than all the bedroom eyes ever have and Tucker really needs to sit down later and have a serious talk with his shitty lizard brain, because what the actual fuck. 

He settles back against Locus’ chest and makes himself comfy. Locus hasn’t moved, so he’s probably still okay with being a human body pillow, and there’s no way in hell Tucker’s not taking advantage of that. As if on cue, Locus’ arm loops loosely around him and Tucker can’t remember the last time he felt this safe. Which is… fucking weird given the combined body count of the people in his bed. 

Yeah, he’s gotta work on his priorities. Later. When he’s not so comfy. 

“Think we could just stay here all day?”

“Possibly.” It’s not enough that Tucker can fucking feel it when Locus talks like this, no, the guy’s so close, his lips are brushing Tucker’s ear and goddamn it. Don’t pop a boner don’t pop a boner don’t pop a boner. 

“Washington may insist on us getting up though, and over sleeping really isn’t particularly healthy.” Okay, there goes Tucker’s boner, thanks Locus. 

Snorting, he rolls his eyes. “Seriously? I don’t think it’s physically possible for any of us to sleep too much.”

Locus’ laugh rumbles in his chest, low and soft, like he’s trying not to let it out. Tucker kinda wishes he wouldn’t. Just the little half chuckle that he lets out is really fucking nice, a big, full on laugh probably sounds awesome. 

“I suppose that’s fair. We certainly have several hundred hours to make up for.”

That seems to be enough to settle things and Locus makes no effort to move, which Tucker’s so good with. They talk quietly for about half an hour before Wash wakes up and demands coffee by reaching up and blindly poking Tucker in the face until he gets up after Wash almost jams a finger up his nose. It’s not exactly how Tucker wanted to start his morning, but when he’s got both of them out in the kitchen, Wash dozing face down on the table as Locus fixes himself a cup of tea--dead fish and something almost obnoxiously fruity--he’s pretty sure they could all do a lot worse. 

* * *

For the next week, things are good. Like really good. Tucker’s pretty sure they haven’t gone that long without some kinda bullshit since they were stuck at the crash site where the nothing was more infuriating than peaceful. 

It’s not perfect, but honestly good is sort of better. If things were perfect, Tucker would never be able to stop looking over his shoulder, and he’s pretty sure none of the others guys would either. They know by now when shit’s too good to be true. 

So he’s not really surprised when, on the third night after they get the sleeping thing worked out, Wash has a nightmare. 

Tucker’s a pretty light sleeper, so he blinks himself awake in the darkness and at first he’s not sure why, then he notices Wash twitching and squirming next to him. Wash is in the middle this time and that might be part of the reason for the nightmare when Tucker thinks about it. The dude isn’t big on small spaces. Tucker’s never asked why, but he can’t imagine it’s because of anything good. 

He pushes himself up and glances over Wash to where Locus is still splayed out on his stomach, sleeping hard. That’s cool, the dude probably needs it. Tucker’s got this. 

Shifting closer, he reaches out slow, hands gently rubbing Wash’s back as he lets out a soft, pained whimper that jabs Tucker right in the heart. Fuck. “Hey, Wash, it’s okay, dude, you’re safe.”

Voice low, he leans in so he’s just inches away from Wash’s ear. “Wash, baby, you’re alright. Nothing’s gonna hurt you, it’s just a dream.”

But the soothing mumbles aren’t doing it, so Tucker runs his fingers through Wash’s hair and gives his shoulder a very slight shake. Nothing violent. Nothing that’s going to get him pinned down with a surprise knife in the gut, cause he wouldn’t put it past Wash to sleep with one hidden on him somewhere. 

Wash jerks awake and away, flailing a little as he sits bolt upright, searching the room for unseen attackers. On the other side of him, there’s a slight grunt and Locus pushes himself up on one arm, blinking, still looking half asleep. “What’s going on? David?”

Tucker carefully reaches around Wash, who’s staring at the corner of the room in a daze, and gently strokes Locus’ hair. “It’s cool, Sam,” he whispers, eyes still on Wash. “He’s just having a nightmare, go back to sleep, I got this.”

He doesn’t actually wait to see if Locus does, knowing him, he probably won’t, because neither of them like to listen to him except when they’re doing it specifically to be more obnoxious. Carefully, he rests a hand on Wash’s shoulder. The touch makes him flinch all over, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead he slowly looks at Tucker, but his eyes are all far away and glassy, like he’s not quite awake yet. Fuck. 

Tucker reaches up, gently cupping Wash’s face, thumbs brushing lightly over the freckles on his cheeks. “You okay, babe? You know where you are?”

Wash blinks at him a few times then around the room again. His brow furrows and he sticks his lower lip out like he’s pouting a little when he shakes his head and any other fucking time, that would be precious, but right now that look is trying to wrench Tucker’s heart out and beat it to a bloody pulp. “That’s okay, Wash. We’re in my room. We’re on the moon, remember? Our nice, shitty moon.”

A few more blinks and Wash’s eyes get a little clearer. “The moon,” he says, very quietly, like he still doesn’t quite get it. “With… with the dinosaurs?”

Tucker feels himself smiling as he nods. “That’s right, baby. You remember that right, how Sarge made all his robots? Giant fucking dinosaur robot fight, that was awesome, wasn’t it?”

Nodding, the corners of Wash’s mouth turn up a little. He rubs at his eyes and squints around the room a little, leaning into the touch when Tucker brushes the hair back from his forehead. “You with me, Wash?”

“Yeah, I’m with you.” And when Tucker gives him a little pull, Wash leans into him, pressing his face into the crook of Tucker’s neck and breathing deep. Arms tight around Wash, he still feels a little trembly, so Tucker rubs at his back until he starts to feel a little more stable. 

He’s not entirely surprised when he feels a warm hand press to the small of his own back and finds Locus hovering at his shoulder, looking uncertain and a lot concerned. Keeping his arms locked around Wash, Tucker leans back to rest against Locus’ side. Tucker reaches for one of Locus’ hand and brings it up to Wash’s hair. His fingers twitch for a second before threading through it. Wash stills in Tucker’s arms and looks up for a second and Tucker braces himself. 

Of course they would fight while he’s literally caught between them. 

But Wash lets out a breath a moment later and goes back to using Tucker’s shoulder as a pillow. After a couple minutes, his chest starts moving even and slow again and Tucker thinks for a second that he fell back to sleep. 

“I’m sorry,” Wash mumbles, the words half muffled. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. Of course Wash would fucking apologize for having a goddamn nightmare. The guy doesn’t know when to quit. “You don’t have to be sorry about that, man. That’s part of the point of this whole thing, so you don’t have to be alone if you have nightmares and shit.”

Wash makes a noise like he doesn’t agree, but he stays where he is, moving just a little, resting his head on Tucker’s chest. When he’s pretty sure Wash is drifting a little, Tucker leans his head back against Locus’ shoulder, blinking up at him. “Hey?”

Locus cocks an eyebrow at him. “Yes, Lavernius?”

“Who’s David?” Tucker hadn’t thought too much about the name Locus had said when he’d jolted awake, but now he’s kind of wondering about it. 

“Me,” says Wash, sounding half asleep, answering for him. 

Tucker stares at the top of his head. “Wait. What? Since when the fuck are you David?”

“Since always, Lavernius.” It’s no fair that Wash can sound so smug and sleepy at the same time. 

He flicks Wash’s shoulder and gets a whine back. “Don’t be a dick.”

“Locus gets to call you that.” Which, alright, is true. He actually kind of prefers when Locus does, it would be really fucking weird to hear him call him anything else. He likes his last name just fine, but his first name sounds a million times sexier when it rolls off Locus’ tongue. 

But Tucker rolls his eyes anyway. “Yeah, but he doesn’t just call me it when he’s trying to be an asshole.”

There’s a soft, rumbly sound behind him and then Locus’ face is buried against Tucker’s shoulder. Not that that hides the way the guy is shaking with laughter. That should be fucking rude, but it’s too nice for Tucker to really be annoyed.

“You’re both dicks,” he says, with a huff, but he loops an arm around Locus to play with his hair and keeps Wash tight against his chest. 

Tucker can’t tell if any of them really sleep after that, but it’s easy to get comfortable against Locus’ chest and neither of them jerk awake with anymore nightmares and he eventually finds himself blinking in the early morning light and feels… mostly pretty rested, so he’ll take it. 

* * *

It’s when he’s in the kitchen that Tucker can’t get his brain to shut up. He’s been stirring his eggs for like ten minutes, but no one’s stopping him. Wash is making his usual bowl of marshmallows while Locus shoots him disapproving looks from across the table, a mug at his elbow that smells a little like Caboose’s old gym socks and the ridiculously fancy ‘authentic’ maple syrup Simmons insists on ordering.

So Tucker’s left in silence wondering why the fuck he didn’t think until last night that Wash’s first name couldn’t possibly be ‘Agent’. Like, that’s weird, right? Why didn’t he ever wonder about it? It just… never came up. The other guys had been calling him Wash when Tucker met him and he never thought twice.

But he should have. Locus did. 

Frowning, he sets his whisk down--because of all fucking things, they’ve actually got a goddamn whisk, another reason on the long list for why he just doesn’t question Red Team. Elbows on the counter, he watches Wash for a long moment. “Why didn’t you ever tell me your name? And don’t say that I didn’t ask cause that’s a shit excuse.”

“But you didn’t.” Apparently Wash feels like being a brat today. Tucker gives him the flattest look he can manage and Wash shrugs. “I guess it just never seemed important.”

Well… okay maybe Tucker can buy that. It’s not like Church bothered asking his first name until it was suddenly relevant. But it still just seems weird. “But Locus knows it?”

Locus goes all deer in the headlights, frozen with his mug halfway to his mouth. It doesn’t make sense that a dude who looks like he can bench press a freight train can do such a good imitation of a kid with their hand caught in the cookie jar. He clears his throat, sounding as awkward as he suddenly looks. “I learned Agent Washington’s name because I had access to his files.”

Ooooh. Yeah, that would explain it. Wash and Locus both suddenly can’t look at each other and Tucker winces in his head because he should’ve fucking known that. Bringing up that whole part where Locus was super obsessed with Wash over breakfast, super fucking smooth there. What’s wrong with him?

Okay, just… just think, maybe he can make this less weird. “Was there any good stuff in there?”

Locus blinks at him. “In where?”

“In Wash’s file, dude. Like did he do marching band in high school or did the other Freelancers stick his head in a toilet or shove him in lockers?”

“There’s nothing wrong with marching band!” Wash’s voice is starting to climb up into screechy range and Tucker grins. 

“Yeah? What’d you play?”

“Tuba.”

“Oh my god, you’re the biggest fucking nerd.” Tucker keeps laughing even when a marshmallow bounces off his forehead as Wash defends the tuba as his voice gets closer and closer to that range where only dolphins can hear it. Shooting a glance at Locus, Tucker’s pretty sure he’s got a little smile on his face behind his mug by the way the corners of his eyes get all crinkly. Crisis averted. 

* * *

The next couple days are good, but kinda weird. They keep doing the bed sharing thing, and apart from the time Locus jerks out of a nightmare and almost brains Wash with Tucker’s lava lamp, it works out pretty well. But it kinda makes Tucker wonder about a few things. 

Cause he’s into Wash. He can admit that now. And not just in the ‘if Wash was ready to go and dropped his pants, Tucker might hit the floor so hard he’d break a knee’ way. That’s there too. Like so fucking there. But it’s more than that. If he’s honest with himself, it probably kinda always has been. It’s just way more shoved in his face now every time he sees Wash smile or hears that gentle tone in his voice he always gets when he talks to Caboose. 

That’s easy enough to deal with. It’s the parts where Locus comes in that get a little complicated. 

Despite everything, and there’s a whole lot of everything, Tucker kinda likes the guy. Tucker’s always been pretty good at convincing himself of things, so he could definitely try to just pin all the shit Locus did on Felix and be done with it. But that’s not gonna cut it, cause when he tries to do that Cunningham and Rogers pop up in his head like shitty cgi ghosts out of that weirdly creepy Christmas movie Simmons loves. 

So he can’t just act like Locus isn’t that person anymore. But he’s changed. Tucker doesn’t know whether the awkward stumbles and gut busting one liners are new things for Locus, or if that’s the person he used to be before Felix and Chorus. He kind of wants to ask, but he has no idea how the hell to start that conversation. Wherever those parts of Locus--Sam came from, Tucker likes them. Like a lot. A lot a lot. 

Which, of course, brings him to the obvious rom com dilemma. Gotta pick one, right? Except… Tucker’s starting to think he might not have to choose. Cause Locus and Wash start acting kinda strange with him and each other. 

It’s small stuff at first, like Locus eating dinner with the rest of them and taking the shitty chair next to Tucker, but he and Wash don’t fight over it. And when Locus asks Wash to pass him the salt, he doesn’t chuck it at him, he just passes it while everyone else gapes at Locus, cause he’s still doing his weird first name thing and calling Wash ‘David’. 

Tucker just writes that one off as whatever Donut did to them really sticking, but it doesn’t stop with mild politeness in front of everyone. It’s the other stuff that’s fucking weird. 

Like how they both just happen to show up when he’s messing with one of the old guitars he and Grif had scavenged from an abandoned music store on Chorus ages ago. Tucker’s making faces at the strings when Locus and then Wash wander in, both of them looking a little too casual. Well, Wash does. Locus has his usual intense face when he moves to lean against the armrest of the couch. 

“Good afternoon, Lavernius,” Locus says, probably trying to sound like a normal human and missing the target by about five feet. 

Tucker grimaces as a plucked string makes another sour note. Stupid old thing. Sighing, Tucker glances up at him. “Uh. Hey? You want something, dude?”

“No,” Locus says slowly, glancing over at Wash for some reason, who’s made himself busy in the kitchen making something that requires an entire bag of sugar. Maybe they’re trying to do some kind of weird tag team thing here? Whatever. 

Tucker goes back to trying to tune the guitar by ear, which would be a hell of a lot easier of the whole thing wasn’t a giant piece of shit. Or maybe he’s just really out of practice. Damn it, he used to be good at this. 

“I didn’t know you played guitar.” Locus’ voice pulls his focus again. He’s shifted to actually sit on the couch now, though he’s keeping his distance for some reason, shoulders kinda tense, hands clasped in his lap. Definitely doesn’t look comfortable. 

“Huh? Oh yeah, I mean, I haven’t in a while. I begged my mom for lessons when I was a kid cause I thought it’d help me pick up chicks,” Tucker says, shrugging. 

One of Locus’ eyebrows goes up a little, but he doesn’t look surprised. “Did it?”

“Sometimes.” Tucker grins. “Got this fucker back on Chorus, figured I might as well try and start playing again.”

Locus is still sitting all weird and cramped up and just looking at him makes Tucker uncomfortable, so he shifts over until he’s leaning against his side. For a second, Locus is tense as fuck, but that slowly fades and one of his arms comes up to stretch out along the back of the couch, giving Tucker a nice little space to wedge himself into. Much better. 

“I see. Is this because… Grif told me a bit about your band.” Locus sounds weirdly tired as he mentions that part for some reason.

“Yeah, kinda. I dunno if we’re gonna reform the Blue Goo Dolls, but he and I were talking about at least trying to jam together. I might have to get this piece of shit new strings first,” Tucker says, glaring at the guitar as it twangs unpleasantly again. 

By the time he gets the guitar tuned enough to be sort of playable, Locus’ arm has migrated down to curl around his shoulders. It’s a little weird just how comfortable and familiar that is. Locus has gotten touchier lately. But he’s so not complaining, Tucker soaks up the affection like a thirsty sponge. Cause it’s not like he can admit that he’s gonna pull a Tinkerbell and shrivel up and die if he doesn’t get enough attention, so he’s just gonna take advantage of whatever weirdness Locus is infected with for as long as it lasts. 

“Is it difficult to learn?” Locus is sorta half pressed to Tucker’s back, so he can feel every word of that low rumbly voice. 

“It’s not that bad getting like the basics and stuff, here lemme show you.” Tucker grabs at Locus’ hands and pulls them to the guitar. 

It’s a little awkward, he has to sort of shift back onto Locus’ lap. Just giving Locus the guitar would probably be way easier, but this was kind of Tucker’s signature move back in high school for a while and those memories are coming back super strong right now. Okay, usually he was where Locus is now, casually getting all up and close with a girl as he’d direct her hands on the strings. It still totally works. 

Locus is all pressed up against his back and Tucker gets his hands over much bigger ones, carefully nudging them into place. “See, you hold down these ones here and that’s a ‘g’ I think. And then if you move them down a little and do this, that’s an ‘e’, and then you strum.”

Locus does and produces a sound that makes both of them wince. “Does it need more tuning?”

Tucker laughs and shakes his head. “Nah, dude, you just gotta hold down here a little harder, see,” he says, pressing Locus fingers down onto the strings. “It kinda sucks until you get calluses in the right spots. Try it again.”

This time it’s a lot closer to how it’s supposed to sound, still a little off, but that’s probably more cause the guitar was in two pieces when Tucker found it ages ago and his attempts at putting it back together weren’t exactly perfect. Now, he’s kinda starting to think maybe he should find a way to order a decent one.

Tucker talks Locus through a few more until he’s got him changing chords and playing a little melody. The guy’s a good student, brow furrowed with his usual intensity as he works at each new chord until he gets it right. His fingers are a little clumsy at first, clearly not used to gripping anything that isn’t a gun, but it only takes a little coaxing to get him into the right place. Locus has this little frown on his face and a furrow in his brow that’re pretty damn cute.

“I think you’re getting it, dude. I should try and find a song to teach you or something. Here, put your hands on mine for a sec,” he says, already wiggling his hands halfway under Locus’. It’s kinda hard to see what he’s doing, but he can feel his way around the strings. Locus’ fingers match to his, warm skin covered in scars fitting over Tucker’s hand like a glove. 

It’s about then that Tucker remembers just why this move worked so well. 

He can feel Locus’ chest moving against his back, and he’s got his chin hovering just above Tucker’s shoulder. The guy’s breathing in his ear and his hair tickles Tucker’s neck, and Jesus Christ are his hands warm and solid and suddenly all Tucker can think about is all the places he’d like them to go. Locus is literally all over him and it’s just them and the guitar and Wash in the kitchen and none of the guys are gonna be back till--

Wash is still in the kitchen. Weirdly silent in the kitchen. Tucker glances over just in time to see Wash very obviously look away from them. 

“Uh, y’know what, here, you practice more,” Tucker says as he quickly works his way out of Locus’ arms and sets the guitar in his lap. “I’m gonna go grab some music for you to try. Just… just stay right there.”

He needs room to breathe so he leaves the room before Locus can say a word, but Tucker’s pretty damn sure there’s two pairs of eyes on him when he leaves. 

* * *

After the thing with the guitar, the weirdness gets a lot more obvious. Locus and Wash hang around him all the time, which isn’t a bad thing exactly. The distracting part is how touchy they both start getting. 

Like how the next morning, Wash wanders into the kitchen and leans against Tucker’s back. Which, okay, isn’t that weird, before Wash gets his coffee, he needs some kind of support or he’s just going to topple over again and be dead to the world until noon. Why the guy insists on waking up early even when he clearly hates it is fucking beyond Tucker. 

No, the weird part comes when Wash wraps his arms around Tucker’s waist and shoves his cold as fuck hands up under his shirt and makes Tucker jump about a foot in the air and drop three eggs on the floor. “Dude, what the fuck?!”

“You’re warm,” Wash says, at least a little sheepish and mumbly. He also sticks himself back to Tucker again, but at least this time he keeps his hands where Tucker can fucking see them. It’s not like it would’ve been have as bad if Wash had the circulation of a normal person. 

Sighing, Tucker sets down the bits of breakfast he was making, or the parts that didn’t splat on the floor when he jumped away, and grabs Wash’s hands instead, trying to rub some life into them. “Your hands are always so damn cold.”

“They’re not that bad. You’re just warm.” Wash presses his face into the side of Tucker’s neck and hums as if that’s supposed to prove his point. All it does is make Tucker shiver a little. 

“Am I your personal space heater now?” Tucker asks as he rubs one of Wash’s hands between his then the other. His stomach does this very unhelpful fluttery thing when the hand he’s not holding lands on his abs. 

Lifting his head off Tucker’s shoulder, Wash gives him this sassy look and cocks an eyebrow, suddenly looking a whole lot more awake. “Are you offering?”

The coffee machine makes a gurgling noise and Tucker snorts and drops Wash’s hand, moving around the egg puddle to grab a couple mugs. “Maybe. What am I getting in return, huh?”

“Sugar,” Wash says. 

Tucker pours coffee on his hand and curses as he scrambles for the paper towels. He mops up his hand and the counter and then shoves the rest of the roll at Wash, looking at him with rising eyebrows. Wash opens his mouth then shuts it, glancing away. “In my coffee. That’s what I meant.”

For a long moment, Tucker just watches as Wash drops to one knee to clean up the eggs. He’s pretty sure Wash’s ears are turning red, but he has no idea what the hell that means. “You’re fucking weird today.”

He shakes his head and fixes Wash’s coffee the way he likes it. Really, it shouldn’t be called coffee with the amount of milk and sugar that’s in there, but whatever. Tucker’s ready to just dismiss the whole thing until he presses the cup into Wash’s hand. 

“Thanks, Tucker,” Wash says, leaning in to kiss his cheek. And then he just leaves like that’s a normal thing they do every morning and Tucker just watches the door swing shut behind him. 

Okay, so… it’s not like he and Wash haven’t kissed a bunch before. And sometimes it’s been casual kisses like that. Tucker’s given Wash a few sleepy face kisses now and then. Totally not weird. But that’s Tucker. He’s a mess of hormones and barely contained flirting at the best of times. 

Wash doesn’t just… do shit like that. He’s mister awkward, repressed, ‘probably hasn’t touched a dick in years’ guy. Okay, maybe that last bit is kinda wishful thinking on Tucker’s part, cause if Wash has touched any dicks in the last couple years, they sure as fuck haven’t been his. Not that Tucker would be bitter about that. At all. 

Whatever, the point is, from Wash, that’s fucking weird. And it doesn’t stop after that. 

All day, Wash is closer than he needs to be, and he’s always got a hand on Tucker’s shoulder when he’s not leaning so close that their arms brush. At dinner, he asks for Tucker to pass him everything and he’s pretty sure their hands don’t need to touch for half as long as they do when he hands Wash the mustard. And then it’s like he can’t get Tucker into bed fast enough, which would be way hotter if Tucker didn’t trip over himself getting there and Locus wasn’t rolling his eyes at them. 

But then the next day, Locus gets in on the action too. It’s like they’ve worked out some weird schedule so one of them’s in Tucker’s space at all times. He feels like he’s bouncing between the two of them at breakfast and then Locus all but drags him out for sword practice. Now Tucker kinda appreciates the lingering touches as Locus corrects his form, and alright, maybe it’s kinda flattering how Wash is watching with some ridiculous bedroom eyes going on. The problem is that Tucker can’t figure out what the fuck they’re doing. 

And it’s like that all goddamn day. They keep touching and watching and saying shit that Tucker knows has a double meaning, but as soon as he calls them on it, they back off and shy away and he doesn’t fucking get it. So he goes to bed more grumpy than anything else, curling toward the wall and hogging the blanket as he pretends he doesn’t hear the two of them whispering out in the hall. 

Actually, no, fuck this. 

Tucker kicks the blanket off and sits up, crossing his arms over his chest. He watches the door till it opens and they both walk in. Wash is unreadable, but Locus is obviously wary, permanent frown a little bigger than usual. Yeah, he’s not putting up with another day of whatever the fuck they’re doing. 

“So, either of you wanna tell me what the hell’s been up with you lately?” He can’t quite keep the accusation out of his voice. Cause… alright, he’s not a total idiot, he can read signals, and they’ve been putting out some pretty strong ones, but there’s still this underlying fear he can’t quite shake. They wouldn’t just be messing with them, he’s like 99% sure. 

But there’s that 1%. That itty bitty fraction of a possibility that this is some fucked up joke and they’re just going to shit all over him for him thinking he had a chance with either of them, let alone both. Tucker knows they wouldn’t, but that tiny, nagging doubt won’t get the fuck out of his head. 

There’s no immediate answer. Wash and Locus just kind of look at him, then each other, and Tucker’s pretty sure there’s some whole big silent conversation there judging by Wash’s eyebrows. Whatever he tries to say, it seems like Locus doesn’t quite get it, because he turns to look at Tucker and says, “We’re trying to seduce you.”

He says it with his usual Locus intensity--Tucker’s starting to think that’s actually his earnest face, with Locus it kinda seems like there’s a lot of overlap there--so Tucker looks to Wash for confirmation, eyebrows rising. Wash kinda looks like he’s in pain, face all pinched in a grimace. “I thought we agreed on subtlety?”

“Well clearly that hasn’t worked, has it Washington?” Locus asks, sounding like he really wants to put his hands on his hips and send Wash off to his room.

Tucker snorts and presses a hand to his mouth to try to keep more laughs from following. “Seriously? Y’all thought subtle was the way to go? Have you fucking met me?”

Wash looks a lot more sheepish now, rubbing at the back of his neck as he shrugs. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. We didn’t want to come on too strong.”

“Too strong?” Tucker cocks an eyebrow. “Dude, I’ll blow both of you right now if you want me to, I’m down for whatever.”

Alright, even for him, that’s probably a little forward, but it’s so fucking worth it for the way Wash goes red everywhere and how Locus’ eyebrows shoot up so fast it’s a miracle they don’t fall off. They look at each other again and Locus starts fussing with his hair. “We weren’t sure… you seemed hesitant before.”

“Yeah, cause I didn’t know what the hell you were doing,” Tucker says, shrugging. “If you guys wanna get weird, I’m so fucking in.”

There’s another look that goes between them that Tucker doesn’t have time to worry about before they move to sit on either side of him, and Tucker gets that feeling he got when Kimball sat him down ages ago and told him that mounting a full scale mission to unearth a buried sex shop wasn’t going to happen. Wash takes one of his hands and then Locus takes the other, holding it with the uncertainty of someone playing follow the leader getting ready to follow that leader off a cliff. 

“Tucker, we don’t just want to have a physical relationship with you,” Wash says slowly. “We want--both of us care about you and we want this to be something… something special.”

“Okay… we still get to fuck though, right?” Tucker’s pretty sure he at least gets a snort out of Locus with that one, so he’s calling it a win, even if Wash is making his grumpy mom face. He leans forward and kisses the bridge of Wash’s nose. “That sounds good to me, dude. You seriously think I’m gonna turn y’all down cause you wanna do like… flowers and chocolates and all that shit?”

Wash shakes his head. “No, we just… we don’t want you to feel pressured into this. That’s why we thought subtle would be better, so we could kind of ease you into the idea.”

Tucker cocks an eyebrow at him. “Wash, if you thought any part of what you’ve been doing lately is subtle, I’m pretty sure that word doesn’t mean what you think it means.”

“So you do want this?” Locus asks. He sounds calm, but the guy practically has ‘nervous’ written across his forehead in big, bold letters. “With both of us?”

“Fuck yeah, dude.” To prove his point, Tucker takes advantage of Locus still holding his hand to grab at one of his, bringing it up so he can kiss at Locus’ knuckles. There’s a soft inhale from Locus and Tucker has to bite back a grin. Cause maybe he’s thought about doing this a whole bunch before, but the real thing is so, so much better. 

He looks between the two of them, one eyebrow rising since there’s just one part of this arrangement he’s still not totally clear on. “And both of you are… okay is this gonna be like a you two sharing me thing, or are y’all together too?”

The look Wash and Locus share has a whole lot to it and Tucker feels like there’s something he’s missing, but the pieces are there. Just gotta figure out how to shove them together. Wash clears his throat and Locus suddenly seems a lot more interested in where he’s still holding Tucker’s hand. Wait… wait a sec…

“We wanted it to be the three of us, together,” Wash starts. “Locus and I have… worked some things out and--”

The last piece snaps into place and Tucker’s eyes widen. “Holy shit, you’re already fucking aren’t you?”

Wash splutters and goes lobster red and Locus is definitely trying to will himself invisible. Well, that fucking confirms it. Huh. Tucker’s not super sure how he feels about that, he’s gonna have to think about it.

After about four seconds--three before Wash manages to remember how to speak in full sentences and seven before Locus stops holding his breath as if Tucker’s vision is based on movement--he decides it doesn’t really matter. “So is that what you’ve been doing when no one can find you?”

Wash clears his throat and shakes his head. “Not usually. We’ve mostly just been talking. About us. And you. We’re not really explaining this very well.”

“Nah, you’re not, but it’s cool.” Tucker shrugs a little and leans up to kiss Locus’ cheek, cause he still looks like he kinda wants to see if he can sink into the floor and disappear. 

For a second, Wash just stares at him. “And you’re alright with all of this?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? I’m getting two hot as fuck boyfriends out of it.” He pauses, brow furrowing. “Is that what we are now? Boyfriends? Husbands?”

“Partners,” Locus says, looking like he’s a little surprised at himself when Wash and Tucker look at him. 

Tucker lets the word go around his head a few times and nods, a little smile on his face. “Yeah, I like that. Partners is good.”

Maybe it’s having a name for it or the fact that they’re both still holding onto his hands, but there’s this sort warm feeling he’s getting, like he just drank a giant mug of hot chocolate, the sweet, rich taste lingering in every nerve. Because this is it. This is what he’s wanted. And yeah, Wash and Locus still have their issues and they’re probably going to have to talk about all of that a whole lot more and work out like logistics and draw some lines here and there. 

But for right now, Tucker’s just going to fucking revel in this. So because he can, he yanks Wash in by the collar of his shirt and kisses him hard. Wash makes this soft surprised sound against his lips, but then he gets a hand in Tucker’s hair and he tugs a little and Tucker can feel it all the way down to his fucking toes. He sucks at Wash’s lower lip, teeth dragging just a little as he pulls back, leaving Wash’s mouth nice and red. 

He glances over at Locus, who’s eyes have gone like three shades darker and the air is thick with electricity and Tucker has no idea who’s going to move first. But then Wash reaches past him and grabs a fistful of Locus’ hair and then they’re both almost in Tucker’s lap making out like there’s no tomorrow and that’s better than any porno he’s ever seen. Cause if he wants, he can just reach out and touch. He can just grab Wash’s ass or shove a hand up under Locus’ shirt and it’s fine cause this is his life now. 

So he does. 

They fall back onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and Tucker almost gets an elbow in the eye and at one point Wash’s knee catches him in the stomach and almost winds him, but it’s so fucking worth it. 

* * *

Things honestly don’t change that much as far as Tucker can tell. They were already sharing a bed, now there’s just a bit less clothing involved most nights. Wash starts stealing his clothes just a little more shamelessly and he and Tucker sneak into Locus’ room and move some of his stuff into a box in Tucker’s room, cause the guy’s never going to ask if he can leave things there. 

The main thing that changes for Tucker is that he can just plop down on Locus’ lap when they’re having a movie night. And he can kiss Wash when he makes his pouty face if they’re running low on sugar. Tucker honestly hasn’t really dated a lot, he’s not totally sure he would call this dating honestly, but he’s seen enough shitty rom coms to know that they’re in the honeymoon phase right now and eventually there’s going to have to be some serious talks to make sure this sticks, but for right now, he’s just gonna ride on that comforting, happy wave that’s pushing him along. 

Or that’s the plan until he wakes up screaming.

The dream starts slow. It’s more memory than anything else. The radio tower stretches up toward the sky, the jammers still in place. This has to work, his plan has to work or everything’s fucked. 

And then he turns and Felix is there and the knife sinks in deep. It was never going to work. 

He calls for Epsilon in his head. But he’s not there. He’s gone gone gone. 

Felix’s laugh echoes around him as Tucker’s hands fly to his stomach. Blood, so much blood. He can’t get it to stop. Where’s Dr. Grey? Where’s Epsilon?

Where’s anyone?

No one’s coming to save him. He sinks to his knees, hands pressing to the wound, but blood spills hot and fast onto the sand beneath him. Felix is still too close, laughing, the light glinting off his knife. No one’s coming, so he can take his time now. 

Tucker’s going to die alone because his stupid plan failed. His friends are going to die. An entire planet is going to die--all those kids who were counting on him. He fucked it all up. 

The knife flashes and Tucker screams.

Arms go around him, trying to hold him down. He can’t let them, but his thrashing and squirming don’t get him anywhere. He can’t move, he can’t breathe--

“Tucker, it’s alright.” 

Cool hands press to his face and Tucker blinks himself awake in the dark of his room. His breath comes in uneven bursts as he looks around frantically. Where’s Felix? He was just here, he’s going to come back and--

“Lavernius, you need to breathe.” Locus’ voice rumbles in his ear, his arms still around Tucker, trying to hold him still. 

Locus is there. Right… right of course he is. And because he’s there, Felix can’t be. They aren’t on Chorus. They’re safe. It’s fine. He’s fine. 

Tucker still looks down at his stomach. He’s not wearing a shirt, that makes it easier to see that there’s no blood, just a bunch of old scars. Wash’s hands are still on his face, thumbs brushing lightly over his cheeks and his eyes are wide with concern when Tucker looks up at him. 

Fuck, he woke them up. Goddamn it. He’s not supposed to do this. 

“I’m okay.” Tucker winces at the sound of his own voice. He sounds hoarse as fuck. He must’ve been screaming the fucking walls down. Swallowing hard, he sags back against Locus. “Didn’t mean to wake you guys up…”

Wash and Locus definitely exchange a look over his head and Tucker wants to crawl under the blankets and die. Damn it. He can’t be the one pulling this shit. 

Locus loosens his hold a little, one hand rubbing circles into Tucker’s back. “We don’t mind, Lavernius.”

“Yeah, it’s alright, Tucker. If anyone knows about nightmares, it’s us.” Wash smiles softly at him and his hands are gentle where they brush Tucker’s hair back from his face and he hates it. 

They shouldn’t have to put up with this. His stupid little nightmare--it wasn’t even that bad. He’s had that one a million times before, he should be able to handle it by now. What the hell is wrong with him? 

“Yeah uh… Sam, can you let me up?” Tucker’s already trying to wiggle his way out of Locus’ arms. The hold is looser now, so it’s easy to get to his feet, though he’s a little unsteady. That doesn’t stop him from waving Wash off and quickly stepping back when he moves to follow him. “I’m all good, dude. Just… just wanna get a little air. No big deal. I’ll be back in like ten minutes.”

He’s out the door before they can stop him. That room’s too fucking small right now, he can’t breathe in there. The base is too small. The fucking moon is too damn small. It doesn’t matter where the hell he goes, he can’t get away from the bullshit in his head. 

At least the air is fresh and cool outside. He walks around the base three times and down to the beach and back twice. The sound of the water dragging over the sand doesn’t do a whole lot for his nerves. There’s this jittery energy that he can’t get rid of. Every little rustle of wind sounds like Felix creeping up behind him and all the shadows look like knives, which is just fucking ridiculous. He’s starting to think the moon itself is fucking with him. 

The sand squishes between his toes and he drags his hands through his hair. Just get a grip. It’s fine, Felix is dead. He’s fine. 

Water brushes his foot and he jumps and turns, reaching for the sword at his hip. But it’s not there. And it doesn’t need to be cause that’s just the fucking ocean. “Fucking hell.”

Shaking his head, he glares out at the water. Yeah, it’s definitely mocking him now. 

“I don’t have a goddamn problem,” he informs it, like a sane person. It was just one little nightmare. It’s no big deal. He just needs to get the fuck over it and go back inside before everyone starts freaking out again. 

He chucks a pebble into the water probably a little more aggressively than necessary and heads back toward the base. 

Locus and Wash are waiting for him when he gets there. Great. Just great. 

They’re waiting outside and looking at them and the sweaters they’ve got on, Tucker suddenly feels a little cold. Maybe running out of the base in just his sweatpants wasn’t the greatest idea. He slaps a smile into place and shoves his hands into his pockets, cause he doesn’t trust them to not be shaky. 

“Sup. You didn’t have to wait up for me. Figured you’d already be asleep.” Which isn’t really true at all. Because he knows they’re both paranoid as hell. They were probably about to start searching the caves for him or something. Jesus, he needs to get his shit together. 

Wash takes a few steps closer, eyes flicking over Tucker’s face before he takes one of his hands. “We just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

Tucker keeps his grin up, working to make it more genuine. There’s no reason it shouldn’t be. He’s fine. “Yeah, I’m all good, babe. Like I said, I just needed a little air. C’mon, let’s get back to bed.”

He gives Wash’s hand a little tug as he starts to move past him toward the door. Wash looks him over again before nodding and trailing along after him. He kinda sticks a little closer than he probably needs to, which is a tiny bit annoying, but whatever. 

Locus is still just standing there, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the wall next to the door. He’s frowning, but it’s not just his usual frown. Tucker’s pretty sure that’s his thinking face and with the way he was after the cave thing, his thinking probably just means Tucker’s not gonna get laid for days, so he’s gotta stop that real quick. 

Letting Wash’s hand go, he makes himself at home in Locus’ personal space and leans up on tiptoe, hands resting on Locus’ elbows to brace himself as he moves in for a kiss. Locus’ lips part, probably in surprise, and Tucker takes that as a chance to go straight for first base. The world is cold and Locus is so, so warm. There’s only an awkward second before his mouth is pliant and accepting. His arms move, almost leaving Tucker off balance until those warm, massive hands press to his back and he can’t stop himself shuddering as he presses into the touch. 

He pulls back, breathing a little uneven as he bumps his nose against Locus’. “I’m fine, Sam,” he says, lips brushing Locus’ cheek. “Let’s just go back to bed.”

There’s a long pause where Tucker gnaws at the inside of his cheek, but then Locus nods and relief drenches him like a wave. Locus and Wash let Tucker drag both of them back to bed, and when he wakes from another nightmare two hours later, he does so silently, both of them still sleeping evenly next to him. 

Good. Much better. He can totally handle this. 

* * *

Tucker’s a little tired the next morning, but that’s nothing six cups of coffee can’t fix. He’s working his way through the third when Locus wanders in from his morning run and greets him with his ‘thinking face’. 

Uh oh. If he asks about the nightmare, Tucker’s gonna punch a hole through the wall just so the kitchen has a window he can jump out of. The base could seriously use a few more of those in any case. 

Wash is sitting at the table, pouting as he pokes at his bowl of sugar covered… somethings. Tucker thinks they might’ve been Cheerios before Wash got to them. Apparently their marshmallow supply has dwindled to critical levels. So that probably means he’s not going to be much help if Locus starts asking the questions to get at Tucker’s issues. 

Better head him off at the pass. Tucker’s already got a cup of water heated up and ready for weird tea that he slides across the counter when Locus approaches. “Morning. What kind do you want? I can grab you a tea bag.”

Locus shakes his head. “No need. I moved them anyway.” He walks around the counter and bends almost double to reach into the cooler, pulling a small tin of tea bags from under a pile of ice packs. “Donut found them yesterday and spent six hours asking if he could make them into candles.”

Tucker snorts. “Is that even a thing?”

“I have no idea and I don’t want to find out.” Locus still has thinking face as he picks a bag from the tin and dunks it methodically into his cup. Great. Tucker braces himself for the questions he’s sure are coming as Locus looks to him, head tipped slightly to one side. “You call David ‘babe’.”

That’s not a question. That’s also about the last thing Tucker expects to hear out of Locus’ mouth, so he just kinda blinks at him for a second. He glances at Wash, who’s still poking at his cereal, but now in a way that makes it very clear that he’s trying to make it look like he’s not listening in, even though he totally, completely is. 

“Uh… yeah. It’s like a term of endear-whatsit. A petname, I guess,” Tucker says, because he has no idea where Locus is going with this.

Apparently not there, because Locus lets out a huff and shakes his head. “I know that.” He sounds kind of annoyed, which is probably fair. “I only meant…”

Locus’ frown grows and he shakes his head, dunking his tea bag a little more aggressively, water threatening to spill over the lip of the cup. “Nevermind. It’s not important.”

Okay, that definitely makes it sound like something that probably is important. Tucker’s brow furrows a little. Alright, why’s Locus annoyed by this? No, he doesn’t really sound annoyed. More like… upset maybe? Jealous?

Jealous that Wash gets one, but he doesn’t. 

“Do you want a petname too?” Tucker makes it sound casual, like he could be teasing. 

Locus grimaces. “I said it wasn’t important.”

Fucking bingo.

Huh, well now he’s gotta think about it. Cause he definitely doesn’t have one of those for Locus. He’s kind of just been using… his actual name for that. Which seems weird now that Tucker’s thinking about it. And it probably means dick all to Locus since he just always calls people by their first name--like the other day when he called Simmons ‘Richard’ and everyone was dead silent for six and a half minutes. How the fuck does the guy get through a conversation with Sarge?

Stay focused. Petnames. Think of a good one. Tucker can so do that. 

Crossing his arms over his chest, he leans against the counter, thinking. “Nah, I like that sappy shit. Lemme think. Wash is ‘baby’ cause he pouts like one. You could be ‘sweetcheeks’ cause you’ve got that choice ass and your face is like weirdly soft for an older dude. How old are you even?”

Locus takes in a deep breath through his nose, the kind that sounds like he regrets every choice he’s ever made in his life. Tucker just grins at him, which grows even wider when Locus looks to Wash for sympathy and just finds him trying to muffle giggles with cereal. “I would prefer literally anything else.”

Tucker presses a fist to his mouth and nods, trying not to laugh. “Okay, okay. How about gorgeous? Nah, that’s too long. I’m pretty sure I heard Sarge use ‘darling’ so I can’t say that without doing a stupid accent. Lo maybe? Sugar’s probably better for Wash,” he pauses, glancing at Locus, who’s been rolling his eyes at every suggestion, but Tucker’s got a good feeling about this last one, “or I could always just go with ‘love’.”

Locus’ mug slips out of his hand and hits the metal box of a counter he’s standing next to with a clang. He scrambles and doesn’t quite manage to stop it smashing on the floor. Then he straightens up so, so slow, like he’s lagging or something. And he kind of just, stares at the counter like he doesn’t really see it. 

“I think you broke him.” Wash pushes himself up from the table and wanders over almost cautiously. He lightly pokes at Locus’ arm a few times before his hand gets batted away, but that looks more like a reflex than anything else. Tucker takes a step closer to wave a hand in Locus’ face and almost gets a foot full of broken glass. He’s gonna have to clean that up in a second. 

Locus catches his hand apparently without looking at it. “Lo,” he says, voice very rough, “Lo will do.”

Tucker grins and leans up to kiss his cheek. “I can work with that. Wash, can you move him? I gotta clean this shit up.”

That’s when Locus finally seems to notice that the cup is broken. He blinks at the pieces on the floor, brow furrowing. “I should clean that--”

“Dude, it’s cool, I got it.” Tucker waves him off, rolling his eyes, already grabbing paper towels to sop up the tea. 

Locus’ reaction time still seems like it’s a couple seconds off, so Wash tugs him toward the table and nudges at him until he sits down so Wash can plop onto his lap and pull his cereal over. The guy’s in such a daze that he just eats the sugar coated pieces Wash presses to his lips without protest. God, Tucker needs to just carry a camera on him all the time, cause that’s fucking adorable. 

He shakes his head a little and drops to one knee to clean up the cup. The tea smells kinda coppery, and the gross, brown color of it’s already trying to creep under the cupboards where it’ll never get cleaned. Cause yeah, okay the cupboards aren’t actually nailed down, but who the fuck is going to move them? Simmons probably, so not Tucker’s problem. 

The tea’s soaking through the towel pretty quick, so Tucker presses a few more down before picking up the bigger bits of glass. They’re kind of slick. One nearly slips out of his fingers, so he scrambles a little, grabbing it tight and slicing the meat of his palm like a dumbass. He hisses and tucks his hand in close. “Shit.”

Yeah, okay, that feels like it’s bleeding a whole bunch. He presses his hand tight to his shirt as he straightens up and dumps the rest of the glass in the little trash bucket before heading for the sink. This is gonna be the lamest fucking scar. 

“Tucker, you okay?” Wash calls, but Tucker just waves his uninjured hand. 

“Yeah, I’m good, just cut myself a little. We got a first aid kit out here?” Tucker’s already moving to the sink to wash it off. 

“No, but I think there’s one in the bathroom.” There’s shuffling behind him, probably Wash getting up and going to get it. Tucker’s kinda busy waiting for the water to run clear. 

Fuck his hand hurts. As soon as the water looks mostly okay, Tucker shoves it under the stream and hisses again. Yeah, that sucks. Probably should’ve just waited for Wash to get back with the med kit. 

“You should have let me clean it.” Locus has apparently recovered enough to say ‘I told you so’.

Tucker rolls his eyes and shuts off the sink, shaking out his hand a little as he turns toward him. “I’ve got it covered. It’s not even that deep a cut, see?”

He holds up his hand, which is still a little bloody. But Locus isn’t looking at his hand. He’s looking at Tucker’s shirt, eyes wide. Tucker’s gaze follows his. 

The blood stain on his shirt is a lot bigger than he thought it would be, smeared all over his stomach. Fuck. It smells like copper. 

His brain comes to a screeching halt and he staggers backward, fumbling at his stomach. Oh god. It’s happening. His fucking dream. It’s out of his head and it’s happening and he can’t breath and got there’s so much blood. His hand is still dripping. Where’s the knife? Where’s Felix? He’s dead he’s dead he’s dead. 

“I got the med kit--Tucker, what’s wrong?” Wash’s hand lands on his shoulder, half snapping him out of it. 

Tucker scrabbles at himself, patting at his stomach before hauling up his shirt. Nothing but scarred skin. He’s freaking out over nothing. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to force down the rush of panic. 

Wash and Locus are already looking at him like he’s crazy. Fuck. Okay, if he can just get it together. “It’s nothing. I just… the blood…”

He pulls his shirt back down and catches sight of it again. His heart hammers in his ears and he swallows hard. Just fuck the shirt. Tucker yanks it off and balls it up. It’s better if he’s not looking at it. 

“That wasn’t nothing, Tucker,” Wash says, stern voice cutting through Tucker’s jumbled thoughts. “You almost had a panic attack, didn’t you?”

“What?” Tucker scoffs, but it sounds forced and awkward even to him. “I just got a little bloody, dude. The fuck would I have a panic attack over that for?”

It’s a great question. Because seriously, what the hell was that? It’s not like he was even hurt. Well, not in the right place to make him lose it like that. 

“I’m going to call Dr. Grey--”

“Dude, no.” Tucker grimaces, shaking his head. “I just froze for a second when I saw the blood, no big deal, right Locus?”

He looks to Locus and he doesn’t wanna say he’s desperate. But he kind of is. Come on, just tell him he’s normal. Say he’s fine. Tucker suddenly needs to hear someone else say it. Someone else has to know that he’s right, that he’s fine. This is normal. He’s normal. Totally boring and normal and fine. 

But Locus shakes his head. He’s out of the chair and drawing closer, careful to step around the broken glass still on the floor. “It looked as though you were having some kind of… flashback. I’ve had them myself, it’s--”

Tucker shakes his head, scoffing again. “What? Dude, no, that’s like… traumatic stress shit. I don’t have that. The fuck do I have to even flashback about?”

Because what happened wasn’t even that bad. He survived, and he was only in the hospital for a couple weeks. No big deal. Wash has had way worse than that. Locus too probably. Where the fuck does he get off freaking out over tiny shit like that? 

They’re both giving him these really weird looks. Wash touches his shoulder a little too gently and it feels like a trap. “Tucker… that isn’t how this works.”

Tucker shrugs out of his grip and steps back from both of him. “No, it is. Look, you guys don’t get it, okay? I don’t get to do that shit. I’m supposed to be the one that’s helping you guys.”

Wash’s brows knit together and he looks a little shocked. “What do you mean you don’t ‘get to’?”

Fuck. He said it wrong. Okay, he just has to figure out how to explain this. It all makes total sense in his head. He opens his mouth and shuts it a few times and he’s not sure what he’s doing with his hands, but one of them is still bleeding and dripping, but he has to explain. 

“It’s just--look, I know you’ve both been through a whole bunch of shit, right? So like… I’m supposed to be the person who’s got stuff together so I can just, y’know, help. And I can’t do that if I’m losing my goddamn mind over every fucking nightmare. So I just--I don’t, Wash. And I’m fine.”

Except that there’s suddenly not enough air in the room and he doesn’t know when he started backing up, but now there’s a wall behind him and he doesn’t know where to go. He takes a breath, trying to fight down that clawing shaky feeling that’s working its way up his throat. “I’m fucking fine.”

Wash takes a little half step forward, but stops when Tucker flinches back. His face looks almost like he's in pain. “That's not--Tucker it isn't your job to take care of us.”

“Then what the hell am I good for?” Tucker doesn't mean to yell it, but it suddenly feels like he just screamed it, like the whole fucking base must've heard. He's breathing a lot harder than he wants to be and he can't make it stop. “If you don't need me then what's the fucking point of keeping me around when I just fuck everything up?”

His eyes are burning and he can't breathe and he hates this. He hates the way they're both looking at him. He hates that he can't keep his stupid mouth shut. And he hates that when he furiously scrubs at his face, cause he's not fucking crying, he leaves a big smear of blood everywhere. 

“Lavernius, is that what you this this relationship is about?” For once, he can’t get a read on Locus, his face is kinda pinched in places, but Tucker has no idea what the hell that means. 

“Yes? No? I don’t fucking know.” Tucker throws his arms up cause he doesn’t know what else to do with them. There’s a horrible sinking feelings somewhere down beneath the roaring panic. He knew they were gonna hit bumps, but they’re not supposed to be his, and they sure as shit aren’t supposed to come up this soon. The honeymoon phase can’t end like this. 

So he looks between the two of them, shaking like he might just fucking explode. And then he runs. They don’t try to stop him. 

* * *

Tucker really needs to stop rushing outside without a shirt on. Or the moon needs to warm the fuck up. The cool air hits him in the face and it takes a few big gulps of it for him to remember how to breathe right. He just needs to get his head together out here and it’ll be fine. He can just play that off as… stress maybe? Say he was freaking out over nothing, that he really didn’t mean it. 

The only problem is, now he’s outside, he doesn’t really know where to go. He can’t go to his rock, they’ll look there, and he sure as shit isn’t going to go wander around the caves for a while. So he just kinda wanders. 

Or that’s the plan until he walks face first into Locus’ ship. It’s stashed behind a couple big rocks and camouflages itself as Tucker staggers back, pressing a hand to his now throbbing forehead. He’s only seen it a couple times, and most of that was from far away. It sorta seems smaller up close, compact and speedy looking. 

He probably shouldn’t mess with it. Hands shoved into his pockets, he turns away and starts walking, but then the ship makes this weird noise. Tucker turns back around, ready to wince because of course he’d break the damn thing. 

But it doesn’t look broken, it just looks like someone’s opened up the door. The ramp up into the ship spills out slow. It looks more like liquid than a solid thing with how it moves, but it’s nice and stable once Tucker goes up and prods it with his foot. 

Really, he shouldn’t be messing around with Locus’ stuff, but… he’s never actually gotten to go in there. And the outside of it looks cool as shit. So Tucker slowly makes his way up the ramp, glancing back behind him. It’s not like he’d get in trouble for this… probably. But it still feels like he’s kinda he’s doing something he shouldn’t be. 

The inside of the ship is a lot more colorful than he expects. There’s some stuff let here and there, probably things Locus hasn’t gotten around to moving into his room yet, mostly weapons and strangely shaped alien things and for some reason a collection of volleyballs. 

As curious as he is, Tucker doesn’t really wanna mess with Locus’ stuff, so he leaves that be and just goes to sit at the top of the ramp. It’s kinda warm in the ship, and sitting with his back to that and his face to the goosebumpingly cold wind sort of evens things out. It feels like a good place to think. Too bad that’s the last fucking thing Tucker wants to do. 

Cause at some point, he’s going to have to go back in there and explain himself. 

The whole thing feels pretty damn stupid now. Of course being a shoulder to lean on isn’t all that he thinks Locus and Wash want him for. Seriously, look at his abs, those are up there too. But maybe… okay yeah maybe he doesn’t really get what they see in him other than that. Like, he can be a badass sometimes, but they’ve both got him beat by a mile. And sometimes he’s funny, but he knows some of his jokes are a little much. What else do people want out of a partner? 

Tucker has no clue what else he’s got to offer. 

He blows out a breath and leans against the doorway of the ship. He’s half sure it’s humming. Actually, it probably is, alien things kinda just seem to always do that. Tucker vaguely remembers getting an explanation for that at one point, something about being in tune with… the environment, or their owners or… something? Yeah, he probably hadn’t really paid too much attention to that. He had been a pretty shitty ambassador in retrospect, kinda like how he is at just about everything. 

The ship is definitely humming at him now, and kinda doing this little vibratey static thing against his cheek. It tickles and Tucker can’t stop the soft laugh that slips out as he leans his head away. “Stop that.”

He pats at the ship and it makes this soft little trilling sound. Suddenly Tucker has a pretty good idea how Locus managed to not go crazy traveling through space all by himself for ages. 

Looking back into the ship, he blinks, brow furrowing. There’s this small flashing light that he definitely hadn’t noticed before. Pushing himself up, he moves toward it. The light is on the underside of some complicated looking console. Tucker’s hands hover over it a little uncertainly, not sure what the ship wants. But he doesn’t have to wonder for long. A little drawer pops out with a medkit inside. 

Tucker’s eyebrows shoot up and he glances around the ship. Why is it giving him… oh yeah. His hand is still kinda fucked. He glances down at it and cringes. The bleeding has slowed, but it looks a little gross. So he takes the medkit and sinks down onto the floor of the ship. It’s a little awkward trying to wrap his right hand with his left, but he gets it on there well enough and lightly pats the side of the console. “Thanks. Did Locus ask you to help me?”

The ship hums and Tucker has no idea what that means. He leans back against the console. “For an alien ship thing, you’re pretty cool.”

He probably looks crazy talking to the ship, but he hears it hum and the temperature adjusts a little, a nice comforting warmth, somehow venting out the stuffiness that had been there when Tucker first started poking around. Even if it can’t talk back, he gets the weirdest feeling that the ship is listening. 

“I guess I probably look pretty messed up, huh? It’s really not that bad.” Tucker stops, frowning at himself. Why is he trying to pretend to the ship that he’s okay? It’s a ship. “Fuck, I’m having a weird day.”

The ship hums, vibrating a little where his hand touches the floor. Tucker finds himself smiling at it. “Guess it’s less of a weird day and more like… a weird fucking year. I think I freaked out your owner. Or pilot or whatever. He’s probably kinda pissed at me now.”

More humming and the vibrating under his hand gets softer somehow, like the ship is trying to reassure him. It also feels like a question. Or maybe Tucker just wants it to cause he even kinda sucks at being alone. “I just started talking and I couldn’t stop and all this shit just came out that I didn’t even mean.”

Tucker stops, frowning at himself. “Well, okay, yeah, I guess I meant it. But I didn’t mean to say it like that, y’know? I never meant to say it at all. That’s the kinda shit that you just don’t talk about. Or I don’t talk about. I guess. I just don’t want them dealing with all my bullshit.”

He sighs and lets his head fall back against the console. The ceiling of the ship is covered in a bunch of little lights that change color, slowly shifting from one to the next. It’s kinda relaxing to stare at actually. 

“I didn’t mean being needed as being a bad thing back there,” he says slowly. “I like taking care of them. It’s cool, y’know? Makes me feel like I’m doing something important, and I like seeing them… doing better. But if I’m all fucked up too… I dunno if I get to be that person anymore...”

Tucker’s not sure how long he spends talking to the ship. Mostly, he kind of just talks himself in circles. It doesn’t feel like he really gets anywhere or figures anything out, but… it feels a little better just hearing himself say some of this shit out loud. 

It’s probably been a while when the ship buzzes at him a little and he blinks, sitting up just in time to hear footsteps coming up the ramp. It’s not remotely surprising when Wash and Locus poke their heads in. Managing a half smile, Tucker lifts a hand in a little wave. “Sup.”

They both sag with visible relief. Shit, have they been looking for him this whole time? Maybe he should’ve just gone down to his rock. 

He’s about halfway to opening his mouth to say something, he’s not really sure what, he should really plan this shit more, when they’re both in his space. Locus’ hands are warm where they cup his face, gently brushing something off his cheek, probably dried blood. Ew, he kinda forgot about that. Wash pulls his injured hand into his lap and inspects the bandages, rewrapping them a little more securely. “You disinfected this, right?”

Tucker blinks at him, then at his hand. “Yeah, uh, there was a medkit in here. The ship kinda shoved it at me. This thing is cool as fuck, dude.”

The ship hums around them and Wash blinks at it like he’s only just realized where they are. His brow furrows a little, and he opens his mouth like he wants to ask, but then he just shakes his head. Probably better that way, cause Tucker sure as shit can’t explain how the ship works and he’s willing to bet Locus can’t either. Wash just leans in and presses his forehead to Tucker’s temple, arms snaking around his shoulders. “We shouldn’t have just let you leave like that. I’m… I’m so sorry, Tucker.”

“What?” Tucker can’t really see Wash from this angle, but he shifts a little until he can get an arm around his waist. “Wash, you don’t have to be sorry, you didn’t do anything wrong. Neither of you did.” 

He looks at Locus when he adds the second part, but the big guy doesn’t look convinced. His hands are still on Tucker’s face, holding him carefully, but securely, like he might just fucking disappear. “We never meant to make you feel that way, Lavernius.”

Tucker blinks at him for a second. What way? Oh yeah, what he said before. He shakes his head as much as he can without knocking Locus’ hands away, one of his own coming up to curl around his fingers. “You didn’t. Look, what I said before, it’s… you didn’t do that, okay? That’s just--just me. I’ve had that shit in my head for ages, didn’t really mean for it to all just explode like that, but… here we fucking are.”

“We should have known.” Wash’s voice is low in his ear and it makes Tucker roll his eyes. 

He gives both of them just a little push, just enough so he can actually look at them. “No, you shouldn’t have. You’re not a fucking mind reader, Wash. You didn’t know that shit cause I didn’t want you to.”

“It still shouldn’t fall on you to look after us,” Locus says. His hands are off Tucker’s face now, but one’s resting on his knee, warm and steadying. 

Tucker cringes and drags a hand over his face. “Yeah, look, I said that part real shitty. Cause see… I didn’t mean it as a bad thing. Like, I dunno, I always feel kinda cool that I’m the one you guys wanna lean on, and it just sucks when I let my own crap get in the way of that.”

Wash is still loosely holding his injured hand and he gives his fingers a little squeeze. “You know we want to help you too, right? That’s sort of how a relationship is supposed to work. It’s a mutual thing, Tucker, and it isn’t going to work if we’re just taking and you never let us give anything back.”

“Gross.” Tucker scrunches up his nose a little and laughs when Wash lightly pulls at his hair. “Yeah, I… I guess I get that. I dunno, it’s just--it’s fucking weird even thinking about talking about my shit when y’all had it so much worse.”

There’s a sigh from Locus as his hand moves in circles over Tucker’s knee, which is a little more distracting than it should be. “You’re still a soldier, you’ve still fought and lost allies and friends the same as we have. Our problems don’t make yours any less significant.”

Tucker shrugs. “Doesn’t make them any easier to talk about. And I don’t want any shit about that, cause getting either of you to say anything is like trying to pick up chicks at a strip club.”

Wash snorts and shakes his head a little, but at least they both look a little sheepish. Rubbing at the back of his neck, Wash nods a little. “We all need to work on that. Communication isn’t any of our strong suits.”

“We’re kind of a mess, huh?” Tucker lets out a breath and shakes his head a little. “We’re probably stupid for trying to make this work.”

“Most likely,” Locus agrees. “But stupidity seems to serve you all rather well from what I’ve observed.”

“Asshole.” Tucker lightly smacks at Locus’ arm and gets a small smile in return. He sighs and leans forward, forehead ending up smushed against Locus’ shoulder. “But if y’all wanna keep trying, I’m down.”

“We are,” Wash says firmly. He rubs at Tucker’s back, shifting closer to both of them. “I do want you to at least talk to Dr. Grey though. We all should.”

There’s a very uncertain noise from Locus that makes Wash laugh. “You can talk to her under a different name, Lo.” 

Tucker groans. “Fine, I’m not gonna fucking like it though. You can’t make me.”

“Fair enough.” Wash’s head lands on his shoulder and Tucker gets an arm around him. 

It’s not super comfortable sitting like that, so they shift around a bit until Locus and Wash are leaning back against the console and Tucker’s laying half on both of them, holding one of Wash’s hands as Locus idly plays with his hair. Wash is tucked in against Locus’ side, a massive arm curled protectively around his shoulders. They’re a little cramped, but it’s kinda cozy. 

They talk for a while like that. They don’t get all their shit worked out--too many tangents and bad jokes--and Tucker isn’t sure they ever will. But it feels like they’re getting better. And Tucker can so work with that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND WE'RE DONE!!! I just wanna say the biggest thank you to everyone who's kudoed and commented on this fic. I know this ship isn't for everyone, and it means so, so much that people are giving my weird little OT3 a chance. Writing this has been kind of weird for me, initially this was just supposed to be the first scene of the first chapter, but like all my stuff, it grew into something way bigger than it meant to. This is honestly probably the most personal thing I've posted here and I've kinda fallen in love with it a little. 
> 
> WHICH MEANS MORE IS COMING!!!!! For anyone that likes this, I've got at least three more things I want to do with this plot line. Right now, I've got plans for a side piece explaining exactly what Locus and Wash were doing in chapter four, and then a sequel (which hopefully won't be as long as this, but no promises) focusing on Locus, cause there's a whole fun world of stuff there that I didn't really get to dive into here, and then... cause I gotta, I'll probably write a smutty expansion of that first night after they decided to make the relationship a thing. Knowing me, I probably won't be able to stop there, so if there's any other part of this dynamic, or any other character interactions that have been touched on in this story that you wanna see more of, feel free to let me know! I probably won't get to that until after nano, but I'm definitely coming back to this as soon as possible!
> 
> Again, just thank you so, so much for all the support, I love you guys!!!


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